


All this soulmate shit

by half_witch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Aromantic Agatha Wellbelove, Baz is pining and prickly just like we like him, Baz plotting, But like.. all of them, Childhood Friends, M/M, Simon is an idiot and in denial, soulmate bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 00:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_witch/pseuds/half_witch
Summary: Simon has learned to despise his ‘evil anti-friendmate’ Baz despite being connected to him through magic their entire lives. From sharing luck at ten years old, to mind reading at twelve, to teleportation at seventeen, and the Red String of Fate at twenty—Simon and Baz know only three rules:1) The New Year’s Eve countdown brings them one new bond to share,2) The bond only lasts the year, and3) Bonds NEVER occur twice.But this year, the magic is out of their control and seems hellbent on bringing them closer together—even if it kills them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this soulmate shit show<3
> 
> Written for the [Carry On Big Bang 2018-2019!](http://carry-on-big-bang.tumblr.com/)  
> Beautiful, amazing @[jessethejoyful](http://jessethejoyful.tumblr.com/) (on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessethejoyful/profile), too!) used her unbelievable talent and created art for this fic<3  
> 
> 
>  

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m used to people looking at me like I’m a madman from all this evil magic, anyway.”

**_New Year’s Eve_ **

**Simon**

All my life, this has been the worst night of the year for me.

_10…!_

It’s dark, smoky, and everyone’s counting down and reciting their new resolutions in their heads. They’re all happy for another year of magic, of life-changing possibilities. And then there’s me. Going rigid like my spine is going to snap in half by the time the counter runs down _because_ of all those possibilities, and what they could mean for the next 365 days.

_9…!_

I hate New Year’s Eve more than I hate Baz—and, as per tradition, I always hate Baz extra on December 31st and January 1st. I hate having to get used to a whole new type of this friendmate-shit (‘soulmate’ if you listen to Pen’s theory but I swear this is the first thing in her life she’s gotten wrong).

But at least about mid-year I sort of get used to whatever evil magic he’s done to me.

_8…!_

Because it’s Baz’s fault.

I know it.

This has to be one of his drawn-out, elaborate plots to make me lose my mind. He insists that he hates it too, but I’m not sure anymore. He won’t even entertain the idea of Penny’s latest solution. (But then again… neither will I, really.) And, he’s been acting stranger. Stranger than an evil friendmate can act, at least.

_7…!_

Hopefully this year’s new bond won’t be any worse than not being able to see my reflection. Because for 365 fucking days, I’ve had to look at Baz’s face in the mirror. In puddles on the sidewalk. In the reflection of car windows I walk by. His face instead of my own.

_6…!_

I still look like me to everyone else—to Pen, Micah, and Aggie. To last semester’s art teacher who couldn’t understand why I couldn’t paint a stupid self-portrait using one of the mirrors in class. It’s just that when I smile at the mirror, it’s not my face smiling back. It’s Baz’s. All perfect eyebrows and perfect hair even first thing in the morning. Even with his hair grown out now passed his chin, he still looks more put together than me. He’s always effortless, that bastard.

_5…!_

As for me, I can’t just let my hair grow out a whole year like him. I had to have Pen take me and instruct her stylist on what to do every month like I was a five-year-old. In the beginning of the year, I would try to fix it, but in order to do that, I have to take a picture, look at the picture, fix something, then take another one to see what I’d done because even the live front-facing camera of my phone doesn’t beat his evil magic.

I don’t know. There’s never any sense to this shit.

_4…!_

And it’s so weird when we video chat, too. Like I’m talking to a sneering, glaring, evil version of myself. When I had asked him if all he saw was himself on my end, too, he just responded that it was painful watching himself, ‘look like an idiot.’

Maybe this year I’ll track him down, meet him, shake his hand, give him a hug, put on a blood ritual—do whatever we have to do to get this over with. Anyway, that’s Pen’s theory. That it’ll all stop when we finally make physical contact and we can go our separate ways.

_3…!_

I was always willing to let this fade on its own. I’m feeling a little more motivated these last few seconds of the countdown to fix it though. My fixation on us meeting depends on the time of year, to be honest. In the beginning, all I want to do is yell at him every time our friendmate curse turns into a problem.

_2…!_

I even got sick thinking about it earlier with fear of what new bond we’ll have next. When I messaged him this morning about maybe meeting for real this time and putting a stop to all this madness, I could see him typing for a whole five minutes. But all he ended up sending back was, _‘Get fucked, Snow.’_ and hasn’t responded since.

I think he’s waiting tonight like me—to see what the universe has planned next. If it’s true, about how miserable I really do make him, he’s probably hating the countdown, too. But I don’t understand why he won’t just agree to see me, to finish all this.

I hate Baz, but that’s only because Baz hates me more.

_1…!_

Pen wraps her arm around my waist since she can’t reach my shoulders anymore.

She’s been comforting me every New Year’s Eve and I’m just grateful that she believes me and isn’t insane about it like Davy was. My dad was convinced I was some wizard or mage or powerful sorcerer, and that I need to ‘harness this power.’

He insisted up until he died, lying in a hospital bed and begging me to come to him, to save him. Said he was ‘going to change the world and needed more time’ and to ‘use the power.’ Nothing could save his rotted liver though. He was an alcoholic.

He was crazy, and this is crazy.

This is driving me crazy.

 _Baz_ is making me crazy—

_“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”_

Someone in the warehouse projects a big, flashing, golden ‘2020’ onto the wall. It’s a hazy blaze of blue light. The whole party around us sets off poppers and blows into horns, and people are dumping buckets of gold confetti and nets of balloons over our heads from the balconies and rafters.

“You alright, Si?” Pen asks me. I nod, afraid of my own voice. That it won’t be my voice. “I’ve got the checklist. Ready?” she asks, scrolling through the list she’s written on her phone over the years. ‘Reflection’ is the latest addition. “Okay. Voice?”

“I don’t know. Do I sound normal?” Relief hits me as soon as I hear it’s me.

“Good. Same voice—”

Baz and I haven’t switched voices since we were seven. We’ve discovered that the rules about this friendmate shit is that they only last the year and don’t repeat twice.

I asked Baz what happened to him that year we were seven though, and he told me he just went mute. But all we did was trade voices, it wasn’t _that_ big a deal. I mean, yeah, I got in trouble for not giving up the ‘joke’ for a whole year, but going mute for 365 days? I told him that was stupid.

He snapped back, “Better to have people think was mute than sound like an idiot.”

We were seven though and didn’t know what was going on with us yet—if he’s to be believed that this isn’t all his fault. So, I think he’s lying. I just don’t get why he has to be like that with me if we are friendmates or something. ‘Soulmates.’

Soulmates can be friends, too, I always argue with Penny’s research, but me hanging out with Baz, our feet up, sharing popcorn, and watching football—American football though because I’m in the states now—seems like too much to ask.

“What about vision?” she asks.

I focus on my surroundings, but the alcohol’s dragging my senses down and we’re basically at a rave, so all I see are blue lights, the steady stream of silver fog, and green lasers. Those are all the shades in Baz’s eyes and when I was sixteen, blue, green, and grey were _all_ I could see of the world.

“Fuck,” I whisper, panicking, desperately scanning over the rave for a pop of red or pink or orange, and the longer it takes, the more I crinkle my empty beer cup in my hand.

Pen sighs. “Calm down, Simon. Take a look here. Just make sure you can see all the blocks.”

“Oh…” I pull her phone up to my face and look over a long image of the color spectrum, divided up into squares with hex codes meant for web design. (She probably got it from Micah. He does all that stuff freelance.)

I scan all of them quickly, my eyes trying to swallow up all the colors at once. But they’re there. All bright, all vibrant, and thank god, _varied_. “I’m good. They’re all showing up.”

“And, hearing?” she asks, taking it back and pulling the list back up again.

“I hear everything just fine.”

I couldn’t hear music for a year when I was thirteen, when Baz and I were actually friends.

I would have to console him about it because it nearly broke him. That was the hardest year because if there’s one thing that can make Baz smile—or at least smirk—it’s making people weep or applaud through his playing. And, he had to convince everyone he was going through a rebellious phase and hated playing violin. Playing the part of a sullen teenager not wanting to study it anymore instead.

But I’ll never forget the way his face fell on my computer screen when I had brought up the possibility of ‘What if this one doesn’t go away?’

Penny thinks that we couldn’t hear music because we were apart, but I was a teenager—it’s not like I could cross the ocean and make contact with Baz. But I would’ve. At the time, I would’ve swam all the way over there just so he could hear his music again.

But now he’s just a dick and not my friend, so he can go ‘Get fucked,’ too, if it happens again.

“—Music is a go.” She scrolls again then says with more emphasis, “What about _hearing_?”

“Baz?” I ask out loud. “Baz. Answer me, asshole.” No one but the guy a few feet from us pays attention, everyone too drunk or high or with ears ringing from the pounding bass. But he looks at me like I’m crazy then walks away. I’m used to people looking at me like I’m a madman from all this evil magic, anyway.

I continue calling him in my head in the most annoying tone I can muster, _‘—Baz—Baz—Baz—Baz—Baz—’_ But I’ve got nothing but the beat of the DJ in the corner.

“Nope,” I tell her. “He’s not answering back, and he would just to shut me up.”

“Well, at least your thoughts are protected this time.”

Baz’s worst bond was not being able to hear music, but I have to admit that hearing each other’s thoughts was a tough year because we both thought we were going insane at first.

We were twelve and for months I heard clips of someone else’s voice in my head and didn’t know what to do or even how to tell anyone about it. But after that, he learned who I was, and I figured out who I’d been connected to my entire life.

The telepathy wasn’t stable. It faded in and out at the most inconvenient times. Sometimes I’d hear his pompous writing-voice when he was doing his essays while I was trying to get to sleep because of the time zone difference. I’d just moved to the States the year before and he was back in Hampshire, at his fancy family estate. And if I didn’t try to go to bed early, I’d get stuck at 1:00AM listening to him criticize his own words when he’d wake up in the mornings to go over his papers one last time.

But one night was different. I actually woke up to the sound of his voice, magnified and louder. ‘Baz,’ I’d learned from the mind link, was being particularly hard on himself that time. With his thoughts so fucking loud, I just had to butt in despite our agreement to ignore the hallucinatory voice in our head talking back to us.

So I thought at him, _‘Stop worrying, Baz. It sounds perfect. You always do well, right? Well… I mean… if you’re real, you’ll do alright.’_

He didn’t answer back in words, but our collective thoughts started spiraling.

At first, all I got was a jumble of things. It was so messy I couldn’t even understand it—just his essay fragments echoing and overlapping with his worrying thoughts about them. I understood his stress. That he didn’t understand the material, that he was making a fool of himself in his writing, that he’d gotten the interpretation all wrong.

That _he_ was wrong.

Everything, his avalanche of feelings and thoughts, started plummeting down so loud that it hurt my head; things about how he couldn’t do anything right. That he wasn’t cut out for his new school, that his mum would be disappointed. Then there were terrible, lonely thoughts about her not being around anymore to even _be_ disappointed. That it had somehow been all his fault, that it should’ve been him to die in the accident, that his father wouldn’t have had to deal with losing his wife, that Baz’s existence meant nothing compared to hers, that—

I tried to push it out of my head, but it wasn’t working. So, I kept thinking his name, trying to call his attention, telling him it was alright and to breathe like Penny had taught me to do. His thoughts slowed so that only the loneliness and despair was left.

I didn’t have a phone yet. Davy didn’t believe in them. But I had managed to beg enough with the help of a school teacher for a piece of junk desktop for me to type assignments on after computer lab hours ended at school.

We decided to take the chance and call each other online. My heart pounded as it rang. I remember thinking, ‘No one’s going to be there and it’ll prove I’m really crazy,’ and also, ‘I could be calling some random pervert on the internet.’

But then it connected and there was silence for a while until I heard him, his familiar voice.

“…hello?”

He was young like me, not some old guy in his basement. Plus, something in me felt relieved, like my whole life had been building up this pressure in my chest and finally I had release of it. Hearing Baz for the first time was like finally being able to breathe.

“Baz?” I asked. “Is that really you?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Simon,” I answered confidently because I could _feel_ it. This was Baz, the Baz in my head since the beginning of the year, the person I’d felt in so many ways all my life. God, how happy I was to know he was real. But it was still quiet, he wasn’t talking, and I understood. It was unbelievable. I didn’t know if the connection was still on, but I tried anyway and thought, _‘Think of a color.’_

“…Why a color? Wouldn’t it be better to think of a number sequence or something?” he asked.

“This is real. You’re real! I’m not crazy.”

“I’ve been hearing you in my head since January,” he said. “You’re shit at word problems.” He laughed, and I had to stifle my laugh because I hadn’t wanted to wake up Davy.

“What does this mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know…”

“Well, what about right now? What’s going on, why are you so upset this time?”

“This time?”

“I hear you reading your essays all the time. But today—what’s wrong?”

“I just…” He hesitated with what I now know is his instinct to lock up. But his mind couldn’t hide from me, he was feeling too much to hide any of it. I started getting flashes and hearing words—everything about his mother, the color black everywhere, on everything and every person, and lots of lilies, pale and the smell sickening and sweet.

“It’s your mother’s death anniversary,” I said.

“I don’t want to do school, I don’t want to do anything. And, I’ve been trying to do this stupid paper all weekend, but nothing is coming out right. Everything sounds like garbage and I can’t do it—I just can’t do it today,” he spat out.

Then I heard him in my head, _‘She’d be so disappointed in me.’_

“No, she wouldn’t, Baz.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve seen it, how she’d look at you. It was like she was looking at me. I’ve heard the stuff she would say to you. She was your mum and you miss her. So what if you take a day off? Skip it. Skip school. Skip everything. Who cares?”

“My father would care.”

The connection had begun to fade, I could feel his mind slipping from mine, but before it disappeared again, I saw a fleeting thought about his father. It was trying to argue its way to the forefront of Baz’s mind, but he wouldn’t let it.

I grasped onto it then said in a new understanding, “He knows what day it is, too. I don’t think he’s going to give you a hard time about pretending to be sick.”

“I’ve never taken a sick day from school. Even when I felt like I was dying.”

“Well, you’re taking one today. You’re staying and you’re going to talk to me and tell me everything about yourself and I’ll tell you everything about me. Deal?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You can start with what the hell a ‘Tyrannus’ is and why you’re named after it,” I snickered, trying to lighten the mood.

“Says the boy whose middle name is fucking ‘Snowman,’” he snapped back.

“It’s Snow.”

“It’s ridiculous, is what it is.”

And so, I whispered to him all night through my headphones about images and thoughts we’d seen through each other. I asked who the baby was—his new little sister, Mordelia. He asked me who the girl with the blue and purple streaks in her hair was—I told him that was Penny, my new friend from the new city we’d moved to.

We talked for hours about movies, his books, my graphic novels, and our families. We talked about our dead mums until the sunlight filtered through my blinds and it was time for me to go to school.

I should’ve been exhausted, but I had too much excitement bubbling through me still. I wanted to keep talking, I wanted to pretend I was sick, too, but Davy opened up my door and caught me laughing at something Baz had said. It was too late for me to play miserable and sick. But after school, I cancelled plans to hang out with Penny, scrambled to my locker then ran back home to talk to Baz again.

For a while, Baz was probably the best friend I had in the world.

In just a day, he managed to understand me better than even Penny. Because I had been in his head and he’d been in mine. We were bonded.

We talked about the friendmate bonds, too, except we didn’t call it that. (He still doesn’t call it that. He doesn’t call it anything except ‘the curse’ now.) When we were kids, we just called it magic because of the year before. The things we’d touch would start glowing, shining and sparkling and warm to the touch.

“I started using pens in class because sometimes my pencils would start glowing in front of everyone,” he had said one day, months after we’d been talking.

“Me, too! I’d be drawing or doing homework at the table.”

“Did you ever play football? Because mine would start shining. My cousin thought it was possessed.”

“Uh, a football or a soccer ball? Because I only really messed around outside with a soccer ball,” I said.

I heard his exasperation as he said, “I forgot. You’re American now. A real football, Snowman. One that makes constant contact with your feet.”

“I was only making sure.” I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “Hey, Baz, what if they glowed when we were both touching them at the same time?”

“Idiot. That’s where I was going with that already.”

“You don’t have to be a dickhead about it.” I laughed still. Because at the time, Baz and I could do that. We could laugh together, say nice things then call each other ‘idiot’ and ‘dickhead’ without really meaning it.

But things aren’t like that between us anymore.

Now, we only text each other when we absolutely have to, or when I feel like taking out my frustration about the bond on someone else. Part of me wonders sometimes if I do it so that I can talk to Baz still. He never initiates anything with me.

I just don’t get how we could be friends like we were then just… enemies, afterwards.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you going to die?! Simon, it’s going to run out in eight hours!”

**Simon**

“—String?” Penny asks me.

We walk into one of the abandoned corners of the warehouse because Aggie, glimmering in silver under the lights and lovely in every way, catches sight of me and not-so-subtly turns around and darts away like I’m the plague.

“String…?” I repeat. I look away from her direction, sigh, and chug the rest of my beer.

“Stop drinking, Simon! This is serious. I know you’re nervous, but the sooner we get through the list, the sooner we can figure out what your new soulmate bond is with Baz.”

“Aggie’s my soulmate,” I grumble defiantly.

She rolls her eyes and snatches up my left hand, holding it up in front of my face.

“Do you see the damn string or not?” she demands.

She’s talking about the long, unmovable red string that got tied to my left pinky when I was twenty. ‘The Red String of Fate’ from her research.

Thankfully, it was invisible to everyone else. If I followed it all the way, it always led to the end of a dock where it disappeared underneath the waves.

Sometimes, I had enough slack that I didn’t even think about it as I ran around downtown with my old job as Aggie’s aunt’s assistant. No one else could touch it though. It was just a reminder for me. Other times, it would keep tugging at me and running taut like I was supposed to obey it and get closer to the other end of it; the end that was tied around Baz’s pinky too, an impossible amount of distance away.

It’d get tangled up around my phone like it wanted me to call him, too. Anything Baz-related when he needed something. (Even though he made it crystal clear he wanted nothing to do with me by then. Again. For the second time.)

Still, it’s hard to ignore someone when the universe is throwing signs left and right to pay attention. Something about the string-bond elicited the most messages from Baz’s end.

 _‘Your bloody string is ruining my playing.’_ he sent a lot.

 _‘_ _its not just mine u jackass’_

_‘Well, there. I’ve texted you. You have my attention. Now, stop tugging it.’_

_‘im not! u know it doesnt work like that’_

_‘Fine. Stop being such a nightmare and get your life together so you stop interrupting mine.’_

I was stressed that year with the new job.

Agatha’s aunt was a big deal. Ran her own company, and I had to wear a tie just to run around and get her coffee (which the string often jerked and pulled until I spilled it on myself when I ignored Baz too long). Guess the universe didn’t get the memo that Baz no longer wanted to be my friend and therefore wasn’t an option for me to confide in. Still, the string nagged and pulled for his attention more than mine though.

Sometimes the bonds play favorites. Some of the ones we can’t see usually like him more than me.

 

* * *

 

A man in a light blue tank top that glows under the blacklights flashes me a smirk as Pen’s got my hand raised up.

“Shot?” he asks, holding up a tray.

“Thanks,” I say, using my freehand to knock back something that tastes like straight vodka. His face is round and his skin is so light it glows, too. He looks like the moon and nothing like Baz. Baz is prettier to be honest. Than most of the guys I’ve seen all year. I’ve had 356 days to decide that that’s just a fact.

He asks me, “What’s your name, babe?”

“Si—”

“He’s already got a soulmate,” Penny says with a glare.

“Oh… okay… Good for you, I guess?” The man looks at Penny like she’s rabid and starts wandering away with the tray.

“Wait can I get another!” I yell after him over the music, but he’s over it and already onto someone else. “Stop saying that all the time, Pen. That’s why Aggie broke up with me!”

“Well, you do have a soulmate whether you want to admit it or not, and it’s neither some rando nor Agatha. Now, answer the damn question. String or no string?” she hisses.

I focus in on my hand even though everything’s starting to wobble and warp around me. “No string.”

“Good. No name tattoos that I can see.”

“Yeah, nothing on my wrists.”

“And you’re still here, so hopefully it’s not a teleporting year. Keep your wallet on you at all times just in case it happens in the next week though.”

I groan and say, “It’s only in specific situations. There’s no way to tell until it happens.”

That’s how it all went crazy with Davy. One minute we were yelling, and he raised his fist to wail down on me again.

The next, I was falling onto an old carpet that was definitely not the kitchen tile I was standing on a minute ago.

“What the fuck just happened,” I had gasped out, feeling like I’d just been stretched, pulled, then crumpled back up again.

When I lifted my head from floor, I’d found _him_ staring back at me from his bed, with grey eyes so wide and so much more intense in person.

“Holy shit… Simon?” We’d never seen each other in person before and just being there in the same space gave my whole body goosebumps.

But I was still a mess, still scared, and still panicking from fighting back Davy and snapped at him angrily, “Why the fuck are you here?”

“Me?! What the fuck are you doing in my room?” he said.

“Wait—am I—am I in Hampshire?!”

“Why are you here?” he asked, jumping up from his bed and fumbling with the light-switch.

I didn’t know what to say to that. How do you tell someone who decided to shut you out and treat you like dirt that your dad, who they knew treated you like dirt too, had advanced to beating the crap out of you when he was drunk? And raving on about crazy theories and magic that you supposedly had?

But I didn’t have to say anything because once the lights went up, Baz stilled and stared at my swelling eye and bloodied lip and chin in horror.

“He’s drunk,” I explained. “My dad. He’s gotten worse. Going on about the magic shit again. He kept trying to get me to make some expensive fucking rock from South Africa glow.”

“Like our pencils did…” he said.

I mumbled, “Keeps talking about my mum, too. He only does that when he’s losing touch again.”

Baz and I had eventually video-chatted when we were friends. Once in a while, he’d come talk to me, pissed off by something that happened at school or with his father. But right then, already taller than me and glaring so hard it could cut, I realized that it was a good thing that the teleport hadn’t worked backwards and sent Baz to me.

He probably would’ve killed Davy.

“You’re not going back there,” he said. “You’re staying here.”

“Why do you suddenly care, huh?” I asked because I couldn’t help it. He shut me out. And all of a sudden he was trying to take care of me like I was worth something to him.

“Because you’re my sou—” He stopped himself and took in a deep breath to steady the anger coursing through him. “Look, Fiona will believe us. She already does, the parts I’ve told her, but she’s away right now. So, we have a bigger problem here because if my dad catches a blood-covered half-naked boy in my bedroom, he’s going to—”

“Baz?” a small voice trilled from his now wide-open doorway.

“What did I tell you about knocking, Mordi?” he whispers.

“Hi!” she yelled and practically skipped forward, but he kneeled down and caught her in his arms, trying to hush her.

“Hello,” I whispered, trying to angle my face away. She stared at me, not scared, but with squinted eyes like she knew something bigger was going on, something wrong, and that the big kids were trying to cover it up. She was definitely going to be as clever as her brother one day.

“Mordi, you can’t tell anyone that my friend is here, okay? Pinky swear,” he said and extended out his pinky with a look that said it was law. She wrapped her little one around his and settled into his arms. He tilted his face back up at me and said, “It’s going to try to send you back when things settle, but you need to fight it off, okay?”

“How do you know this?”

“Because it happened to me a couple months ago.”

“What?” I forgot about the caking blood on my face and turned to face him and his betrayal.

“Some guys in the city were chasing me one night,” Baz started. “I think they were going to jump me, but when I rounded the corner, I was in the middle of a park. I saw you and Penny—red hair now, right?”

“Baz! Why didn’t you come up to me? We were finally in the same place and you just ignored me until you teleported back to another country?” I whispered harshly, but then I remembered Mordelia still there. “I can’t just hide out here. And if it decides to teleport me back then what can I do about that?”

“You have to fight the magic, Simon,” he urged.

“Why do I have to fight it?”

“Because obviously you got sent here because it wasn’t safe!”

“Then why bring me here? Of all the places, of all the people, why you—”

Then I was back.

No more Baz, no more Mordelia. Not even Davy because I was suddenly on our front lawn looking in on him through the window as he paced the kitchen significantly calmer than when he’d last seen me.

The son he believed was a mage; who’d disappeared right in front of him like the magic he kept pushing for.

It was June, and I was going to be eighteen in a few days. I didn’t have a license yet or even an ID because I’d always been too lazy to go to the DMV. The only thing of real value inside that house was purely sentimental—my old computer that I once used to talk to Baz on, on its last legs, anyway. Ratty clothes. Old school notebooks. My comic books. A birth certificate that I could just re-order when I turned a legal adult. I was already graduated and done with high school.

I would be going off to university in a few months. I could be free.

So I turned and ran.

I ran until I found Penny’s house and when her mum opened the door and saw me without shoes or a shirt and purpling skin under my eye, she pulled me in and I just never went back.

For the rest of the year, for those remaining six months, Baz and I had no way to speak to each other. Because the year before when Baz had turned sixteen, he’d decided not to be my friend entirely and deleted the account he used to talk to me. (I had waited for him to change his mind, to come back. He didn’t appear back on my friends list though, so I stopped waiting and deleted my account eventually too.)

That meant I had no way to speak to him. He didn’t know if I was okay, not okay, still with Davy, alive or dead, and I had no way of reassuring him that I was okay and better now with the Bunces looking after me.

For a while, I thought, that was what being normal was like—what not being connected to someone on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean was like. But I still felt him, like a little ache in my chest that never went away. He was my first thought in the mornings, and my last fuzzy image before I fell asleep.

It was strange. Caring about and hating someone so much at the same time. Someone who abandoned you for no reason.

Still, I was looking forward to that New Year’s Eve after I left Davy and started uni. I counted down in anticipation instead of dread. Hoping for something good, like for the mind link to come back.

Because I was hoping that I’d get a new way to tell him I was okay. And to finally thank him for caring enough about me in that moment to keep me.

Safe with him.

 

* * *

 

“Skin test,” Penny says, whipping out a permanent marker and drawing a little heart on my hand.

“Why’d you draw that?” I ask and swipe my thumb over my tongue then rub it off. “He might not have a pen or be asleep.”

“When has Baz _ever_ been asleep during our New Year?”

“It’s passed midnight for him.”

“Yeah, but it’s only about five minutes passed the new soulmate-bond assignment for you both, too.”

She always sounds so technical and scientific about all of this.

I think she’s equal parts being supportive and being insatiably curious.

“Let me see it,” I say, reaching out for the pen. I roll up the sleeve of my arm and write in big letters, ‘U UP DICK?’ I hand it back to her, “He can’t resist that. He’ll tell me to scrub it off until it’s gone from his arm, too.”

This drawing bond is what reconnected us after the teleport.

My first New Year’s Eve in university, Penny had sneaked out into the yard of Agatha’s sorority house with Micah. Agatha and I were on a break, even though she still invited me over. But she was off talking with a pretty brunette dressed in gold and silver, the both of them looked like cover models together.

Which left me on the couch, waiting for a new bond to show itself. I had a blue pen and was drawing stars on the back of my hand when I saw black ink seep and appear right before my eyes.

_‘Simon?’_

I had started grinning. I even laughed, ignoring the people side-eyeing me. I was shining brighter than I had the whole year and when I looked up, even Aggie was staring at me in confusion. I went from sulking on the couch to grinning to myself like the idiot Baz always said I was in less than 10 seconds.

So, I jumped up, tore through the crowd of people to the front of the house, and sat at a quiet table at the corner of the porch.

I didn’t know what to write, but before I could even write ‘hi’ under his letters, more appeared in his neat, even handwriting.

 _‘Give me a phone number’_ it said, followed by a quickly inked, ‘ _a username’_

Immediately, I messily scratched down my new phone number because Mrs. Bunce thought it was ridiculous that I didn’t have a phone, and in mere seconds, I was already getting a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Simon?” It was Baz, and he sounded panicked and worried—and I couldn’t believe it was for me.

“Happy New Year.”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, are you okay? What happened? I didn’t know how to reach you after you left. Fuck—where’s Davy?”

“Hey it’s alright. I’m alright. When I got back, I ran to Penny’s house and waited it out until my birthday. He doesn’t have a say now that I’m an adult.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Still there? I’m not looking for him. I’m at a school in New York now.”

“Accept the other call,” he said. I pulled back my phone and swiped at it until I saw him, grey eyes lit up from his desk light and dark hair longer and reaching his chin.

And he was _smiling_.

“I was afraid… I thought I wasn’t going to see you again,” he said, and the way he was looking at me when he said it shook my entire being because hearing him, and seeing him, and being connected again felt like finally being able to breathe. Everything about him felt right, and he was smiling at me just like I remember him doing when we were only kids and worked up the courage to finally show our faces to each other through my crappy computer camera.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know how to find you.”

“Wait. You looked for me?”

“Of course I did! I looked up your five million names online but couldn’t find anything except your father’s business records or your school awards. I even tried to reach out to him, but his assistant never got back to me.”

He winced, ducking his head and groaning, “I go by my initials on everything.”

“You jackass, you didn’t think to make it easier for me to find you? And you say I’m the idiot.”

“I’ve been searching for you for months, but I didn’t think you…”

“Think what?” I asked.

“When you were here, you were angry. You were right to be. And you didn’t understand why the magic sent you here. I didn’t think you would try to look for me. I mean, why would you? It’s not like I was—or, we were—”

He shut his mouth, went quiet, staring off screen.

After a moment, he brought his eyes back to the phone and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Simon. Really. If I hadn’t shut you out, I would’ve known what Davy had started doing to you. I could’ve done something to stop it.”

“Forget it,” I told him. “Forget it all, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re okay.”

“We are?”

“Yes. I’m alright. You’re alright. I mean, you look good, you always look good, but you seem okay. I just… I don’t know. Don’t stop talking to me this time and we’re okay. Got it?”

He bit his lip, but I could see the shadows in his eyes slip away a little. “So… Drawings now, huh?”

I smiled. “You can write answers to my midterms now.”

“Fat chance. Try studying for once.”

“Hey, I study!” I laughed.

“You _never_ studied before. And, I never knew if you genuinely wanted to talk to me or just wanted an excuse to avoid doing it.”

“Shut up. I always wanted to talk to you.”

He stared at me, his mouth parted like he wanted to say something, to maybe explain more. But he shut it, and shuffled his phone around, propping it up and grabbing his pen instead.

I saw him starting to outline the stars I’d drawn across our hands on my phone then looked down to see new lines appearing on my skin right in front of me. I pulled the vase of flowers from the middle of the table and propped my phone up, too, and did the same.

For some moments, we didn’t speak; just looked up at our screens now and then to make sure that we were both still there. Sometimes we just insulted or scoffed at each other when one of us would draw something the other didn’t like.

But a flow of conversation did come, eventually. We talked about how our lives had changed in the last half-year. How we’d both left our families to live in the dorms. What it was like to finally be independent of it all, to live however we wanted to.

He talked about how big the future in front of him was and how sometimes he didn’t know what the right thing to do was. I told him the same, reassuring him that he’d be okay since I was okay, and he was always better than me anyway.

He had frowned and said, “Don’t say that, Simon,” before moving on and bringing up something random. But I never forget that Baz thought I was a decent human being, too, once.

Anyway, that night we just continued talking because we finally could. And for some reason, more times than not when I glanced up away from the designs snaking down our fingers and wrapping around our arms, I caught him just watching me work at our hands.

And when he knew he was spotted, he’d look nervously away like I’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t, and resumed drawing. (I still don’t know why he was so embarrassed that night. Baz doesn’t get embarrassed.)

Eventually, he fell asleep at his desk when it got too late for him. And he doesn’t know this, but I kind of just watched him for a moment.

“Night, Baz,” I said when I ended the call. I saved his number, added it to my favorites list where he’s still number two to Penny to this day.

Even though I’ve renamed him to ‘Prick’ now.

And when I went back inside, Agatha was cleaning up after the party, looking shimmery with gold and silver glitter pressed on her cheeks and alongside her face. She asked why I looked so happy right after the countdown.

“Just felt happy for another year. A lot has changed. Things used to be really bad,” I answered. “But we’ve always been together through all of it. I know I’m a terrible boyfriend. I’m still trying to figure out how to do this. How to love someone, but I want to figure it out with you—for you. Come on, Aggie. Things are new. Let me try again?”

“You were smiling earlier because you wanted us to have a fresh start?”

My stomach dropped, but I didn’t let it show. I tried not to think of Baz, and lied, “Yeah. New resolution. Be a better boyfriend for you.”

“I haven’t seen you look that happy in a long time,” she said and reached for my hand.

And somehow, because the universe was making sense again, I managed to get both my old friend and my girlfriend back in the same night.

 

* * *

 

“Timer?” Pen asks me over the rave music, lifting the side of my shirt to look for numbers.

“Stop, it wasn’t there last time,” I say and tap at her to quit it. “It wouldn’t be on my stomach.”

At first Baz and I thought it was a countdown to when we’d meet each other. It was set for a couple of weeks after the New Year when we were still kids. We were fourteen when it’d first started, and he had already started getting quieter towards me. I thought the distance in our conversations meant that maybe he was keeping a surprise from me. Like maybe he was going to go rogue and ditch his family vacation in the mountains to fly all the way to see me or something.

But really, I figured out that it was just a countdown to every time we would talk to each other. The anticipation of the timer running down to zero, even when I was supposed to be sleeping at three in the morning, would keep me up. And like a compulsion, one of us would cave despite being busy or needing sleep just to call each other through our computers. Sometimes I had to use Penny’s phone when I was out.

I couldn’t tell if our future decisions were controlling the countdown or if the countdown was controlling us, but that year, Baz and I realized just how strong the friendmate magic was.

It’s kind of hard not to realize how important someone is to you when you start feeling like you’re being run through a meat grinder just because you’re not talking to them on time. When the changing black timer on your arm tells you to.

We both wore things on our wrists to cover it up. That’s when Penny found out about the friendmate bonds.

“It’s changing!” she exclaimed that day. I spilled soda on the sweat band and went to rinse it in the water fountain at the park we were meeting at. The tan line on my wrist made the black, inky numbers stand out more. I swore no one was there when I looked around and then, all of a sudden, Penny with all her bright hair was next to me, holding my arm in a death grip and poking at the skin. “Is it embedded? What is this? You didn’t have this before.”

“It’s kind of like… a magic thing, I guess?”

She was taking it surprisingly well and asked, “What’s it counting down to?”

“Um…” No one knew about my connection with Baz, though Penny was the only person in my world that knew _of_ him. I always said we talked online, that he was back near where I lived before coming there. Which wasn’t a lie.

“Oh my god!” Then her face had been struck with so much horror I felt her second-hand fear and panicked, too.

“What?! What’s ‘oh my god’?”

“Are you going to die?! Simon, it’s going to run out in eight hours!”

“No! I mean, it doesn’t mean that. It’s...”

She narrowed her eyes. “You better tell me right now what this magical clock on your arm is about, Simon, or so help me—”

“It’s just, well, it’s when I have to talk to my friend.”

“Agatha or Baz?” she asked. That was an accurate deduction. I only had three friends in the world at the time.

“Baz.” I sighed. “It counts down to when one of us talks to each other. I know, it doesn’t make sense.”

“You have a magical clock in your arm,” she enunciated slowly, “that predicts when you and Baz are going to talk next.”

“I don’t know if it predicts or just forces us, to be honest.”

“This is amazing!”

“Pen, I don’t know what it is or why it happens, but it isn’t dangerous. So, you can’t tell anyone. Not your parents and especially not my dad. I just managed to convince him that the other stuff was all a fluke and I think he’s letting it go now.”

“There’s been other things, too? Tell me everything. We can research, we’ll figure out what this is!”

And that’s when it began. Penny’s non-stop, top-secret research project that only Micah knows about. No one else; none of her family, none of our friends. Just Penny, Micah, me, and, unfortunately, Baz and his Aunt Fiona.

I almost told Agatha once when we were teenagers, but Penny kicked my shin so hard I yelped and flung myself back in my chair at lunch. That’s when Agatha started getting jealous of all the time Pen and I spent together and the obvious secret we wouldn’t tell her no matter how much she pressed.

She and I hadn’t even been going out yet, but I liked her. She was the prettiest girl in our grade, the whole school even, and she didn’t seem interested in any of the people throwing themselves at her. So, the idea that there was the slimmest chance that she could be jealous of Penny for another reason other than being the third one out, gave me the courage to ask her to a school dance that year.

We went as friends, but after a few more times as her default date, she kissed me at the Valentine’s Day dance when everyone else started doing it too. We were finally a couple surrounded by couples and for the first time, I felt normal; just like everyone else.

Agatha and I were learning how to be in a relationship and it was all so happy—we held hands, we kissed, her parents even started inviting me on family trips.

But Baz started changing, too.

He was more private with his thoughts, and he wouldn’t tell me anything anymore. Our conversations didn’t flood overnight and into the next day. He barely talked to me by the end of that year. Just enough to say hello, ask about school, tell me nothing about him, and end the video chat when the pulling feeling in our guts finally settled and the timer on our wrists reset themselves.

The whole month of December before our friendmate bond switched, he put our stomachs through hell trying to avoid talking to me all together.

And it was just so immature of him.

Putting us through pain just because he was jealous that I had a girlfriend, and he didn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s twenty-three years of consistency and not even three months into the new year, the system breaks?”
> 
> Finally, Baz's POV.

**Simon**

“Check your reflection,” she says as I drunkenly stumble outside the warehouse and into the cold air. I pass by the guy with the tray from earlier and I can see him better now under the bright lights outside.

 _‘Yeah, definitely not as good-looking as Baz,’_ I think as my head wanders off. _‘…Why am I thinking about Baz—‘_

Pen snaps her fingers a couple times to pull my attention back. Compact. Right.

I take the purple compact from her hand and try to open it, but I’m a little far gone now and can’t figure out which side it opens from. She rolls her eyes and takes it from me.

Then I see my face for the first time in 365 fucking days. No more having to look at Baz.

It’s just me, and…

I don’t know. I think I kind of hate it.

I guess I must’ve gotten used to being able to stare at Baz’s flawless face instead of mine, with all my moles and freckles, looking poxed with muddied blue eyes—

Wait.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I yell at the mirror. “Can this shit just leave it alone for once?!”

“Let me see?” Penny says, pulling my head up into the light and scrutinizing my face. “Wow. Complete heterochromia. You know, that’s not bad, especially considering things in the past.”

I whip out my phone and start drunk texting Baz.

“What are you writing?” she demands and tries to steal my phone away. I hold it up high above her head where she can’t reach, keep typing then quickly hit send. “Simon. It’s just eye color.”

“Yeah, but it’s _my_ eye color and _his_ eye color and I just want to be able to look in the mirror and not see him anymore.” A little voice in my head betrays me and thinks, _‘Sort of.’_

She snatches my phone when I drop my arm. “I’m confiscating this. You’re drunk.” She looks down at the phone. “Oh, look. Baz is up.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘Are you pissed? Or, have you just hit new levels of stupidity.’”

I lean back against the wall of the building. “Fuck, what am I going to tell Agatha? That I’m wearing a single grey contact lens all year? And, he’s such a dickhead.”

“Simon,” she gives me a withering stare, “you misspelled almost every word and sent him, ‘You asshole, give me back my eye.’”

“Well, he did take it!”

“No, he didn’t! It’s your soulmate bond trying to tell you two to stop fighting and be together.”

“First of all, Baz and I are straight.” I think she snorts, I don’t know. I don’t even think my eyes are open while I’m talking. “Second, I wouldn’t _want_ to be with him even if I wasn’t.”

“Then be friends, at least! Everything in existence is telling you two that you’re connected. If you would both just listen to me—”

“You’re acting like this thing between us is gonna go away. It’s a curse. But, it’s not a breakable one.”

“All I’m saying is that maybe if you meet up again—properly this time, then just maybe it’ll stop.”

And maybe that’s why neither of us wants to do it. With Penny’s suggestion of it all ending, suddenly having one different eye doesn’t seem as bad as me and Baz never speaking, hearing, seeing, or feeling each other again.

Disconnected. For the rest of our lives.

It sobers me up a little and I don’t want to be sober—I don’t want to admit that deep down being connected to Baz means something to me.

Because he’s an asshole and I hate him. But only because he hates me. And I didn’t do anything wrong and he acts like my existence is the worst conceivable crime in the universe. Like me living and breathing causes him physical pain.

“I’m going to go get another beer,” I start to say, but when I push off the wall, I trip immediately and brace myself for a fall. Pen catches me and let’s out a heavy ‘oof’ before using all her weight to steady me on my feet. “Or, maybe I should just go to bed.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a better plan. Come on, let’s go sit. Micah should be off work now. I’ll tell him to come get us.”

 

**Baz**

After an entire year of staring at Simon’s face in everything—the bathroom mirror, the reflection of my phone, the rear-view mirror of my car while I drive, even in rain puddles pooled under shop fronts—

I’m extremely disappointed to see my face staring back at me from the mirror across my room. Just me. With my flat black hair grown out too long and skin not as vibrant and tawny or dusted in freckles like the sun rises just to kiss him every day and add another.

I miss last year’s bond already. I’ll never tell him that, and although it was frustrating to not be able to fix my hair or shave quickly, I liked seeing him every day. I liked being able to linger on him without worrying about having to look away.

It’s minutes after midnight for him in New York, so I lay back against the wall and just wait to see in what way the universe decides to connect us this time. Simon will probably end up figuring it out before I do, and when he does, he won’t hesitate to throw the fact that he hates me in my face.

I can’t blame him though. I’d hate me after how I’ve treated him. _Again_.

Because I did try again to make things right when we were eighteen. After that New Year when we started sharing drawings and ink across our skin. Texting throughout our days, calling throughout our nights. I really did try.

I stopped pretending that he didn’t matter to me. I finally let myself breathe again knowing he was happy, thriving, and most importantly, safe. I tried to let myself be his even if he couldn’t be mine. And I tried to be there for him when he wanted to share his everything with me—even if I had to lock up some of my own away from him.

Because I had convinced myself that Simon needed me. Just like the universe had been telling us our whole lives. That he was _it_ for me. Which meant I had to be there for him. Even if sacrifices on my end had to be made, at least I could bask in his warmth. And just existing in his light seemed enough after Davy attacked him and he was brought to me for protection.

But it wasn’t. And I’m weak. And I’m jealous. And petty, and insecure, and selfish and the more he opened-up his life to me again, the more I had to deal with the reality that this thing Fiona and I had been searching for answers about—

This thing that could only mean I was meant for Simon… was one-sided.

Simon would never look at me the way he looked at his lovely girlfriend, a perfect girl who would hijack Simon’s pen and write perfect love notes on his hand for the day. Because she didn’t know all that ink was actually meant for me.

Perfect hearts and perfect cursive that would end up stuck on me until Simon scrubbed it off to make room for _our_ conversations.

I tried to be content with what I was given, Simon’s friendship. But it was like being a teenager with the timer on my wrist all over again; except this time, I didn’t feel sick _not_ talking to Simon.

This time, I felt lonelier and heartbroken every time I _did_.

Because just like back when we were kids, when I was finally starting to accept that I was queer, when I started hoping that Simon was too, I thought we could be connected because of something more than just chance…

But eighteen had passed, then so did our nineteenth years, and I realized again how unattainable he actually was with his Agatha around. I was kidding myself thinking our bond was anything more than the universe playing a cruel, elaborate joke on me.

Even covered in each other’s ink and drawings, history began to repeat itself. He kept talking to me about his girlfriend, how much he loved his girlfriend, how his girlfriend was his world, how his girlfriend was his destiny.

Everything was Agatha and Agatha was everything. She was every answer to every possible question or problem he could ever have. Just like when we were teenagers, with me falling in love with him and him nursing his crush on her.

I really had hope that we stood a chance back then. When I was a desperate fifteen-year-old in love with a straight boy—I asked, “How do you know you’re straight?”

And I remember he just tilted his head at the camera on his crappy computer and gave me that headstrong, self-assured smile and replied, “Well… Because Aggie.”

“What if you’re bi or something? How do you know for sure?”

“I’m not. I’d know if I was. And because she’s, like, my destiny, y’know? She’s never liked anyone, and now she likes me. We’re soulmates. Meant to be together, obviously. So does it matter?”

And so there I was years later, no longer a love-struck teenager and given another chance to prove to the universe that I could be a good one-sided soulmate. All those months of drawing on our hands during uni lectures, and talking to him every day, texting him every day, Facetiming him every day…

All I heard was him _still_ being so sure that Agatha was actually his soulmate even when I understood that the only reason my heart was still beating was because of him.

Because I’m ruined for anyone else. All the temporary boyfriends. Lackluster dates. Empty one night flings. Meanwhile, he got to ride off into the perfect fucking sunset with his perfect fucking soulmate.

And when Agatha learned about me, started questioning him—scrutinizing the inexplicable, miniscule slice of Simon’s heart that managed to belong to me—he hid me away like some dirty secret.

Only talking to me when she wasn’t around. Not being able to go back and look at what we’d talked about the night before because he had to delete our messages. It was like he was cheating on us—or her. Cheating on her. (Because I wasn’t as important as her and would never be as important as her.)

As our second year in university came to an end, I had enough again. And, I ended us the way I did years before. I just stopped being in his life—

_‘u asdhole guvem ebck my eyee’_

—or tried to.

All I ever do is try.

Try to be a soulmate. Try to push down everything threatening to spill out of me. Try to not be so in love it feels like it’s going to tear me apart. Try to be quieter. Try not to talk. Try to cut him out and move on with my life.

And when that all failed, try to be meaner. Try to be crueler. Try to be the villain to his grand fucking fairytale life with his hetero-happily ever after. I’m only ever good at the last one.

I stare at his message now. It takes me a moment to decipher what the hell he’s texted me, but eventually I do see the pattern to his drunk texting. But, what does he mean, give him back his eye?

I get up from my bed and cross over to the mirror. It’s my face still, but then I see it and smile a little, at the small piece of him that the universe has given to me. My right eye is so dull in this light; grey like soggy cement. But his is blue, and even though it’s still that same plain, ordinary blue I’ve seen every day for the last year, compared against mine, it’s so much more alive.

I stare at it for a good minute because it’s beautiful, and because it’s him, and for a pathetic, thrilling moment I’m relieved that I get to keep this with me for another year.

But he can’t know that.

So, I appease the narrative of his life. I reprise my role as his secretly pathetic, hopeless, pining antagonist.

 _‘Are you pissed? Or, have you just hit new levels of stupidity.’_ I send.

He doesn’t respond, and I spend yet another New Year’s night alone and stalking my soulmate’s social media to both torture myself and remind myself how happy his life continues to be even with me at a distance.

 

* * *

 

**Simon**

What the fuck happened last night.

My brain feels loose in my skull, like every time I shift my head, it just slams against the other side. I drank too much. I do that on New Year’s Eve, but even more this year because Agatha wanted to take another break.

“Good morning,” I hear somewhere from behind the sofa. Micah, with his shaggy, waved hair and thick-rimmed glasses, leans over me a second later. “Whoa, look at your eye,” he says with fascination.

That’s right. I have mismatched fucking eyes now with Baz’s ridiculously pretty one making mine look like shit even more.

“So, you still drunk? You were out cold when I threw you on the couch.”

“No, but I’m hungover like hell,” I groan and squeeze the sides of my head in my hands to make the fucking throbbing stop.

“Want breakfast? I’ll make it extra greasy,” Micah says, and his cheery tone makes me want to take my pain out on him. It’s not his fault I’m a human wreck. Baz called me that the last time I hit him with a string of texts complaining about how inconvenient his face was. I guess I proved him right again by letting myself get sloppy last night.

“Ah, he wakes,” Penny says as she leans over the back of the sofa, too.

“Please tell me Aggie didn’t see me like this.”

“That would’ve required her not to outright avoid you the whole evening.” Leave it to Pen not to sugarcoat anything. “Feel like apologizing to Baz yet?”

“Why should I?”

“You unwarrantedly called him an asshole and probably ruined his New Years night out.”

“Nothing ruins his New Years. He’s always out with his super uppity, posh friends. Probably drinking champagne with Victoria’s Secret models all over him.”

“He still thinks Baz is straight?” Micah whispers to Pen.

“I can hear you. And yes.”

“I think you should send your soulmate an apology,” Penny says, finally relinquishing my phone back to me.

“But she won’t respond to any of my texts.”

“ _Baz_ , Simon. _Baz_. The one you have a magical bond with.”

I snort then mutter, “I’d rather gnaw off my arm, thanks.” She glares at me then walks over to the windows and pulls the blinds right up, letting sunlight assault me all at once. She watches me coldly as I shrink back from the light like it burns.

She says icily, “I’m getting coffee.”

I glare at her as she walks towards their kitchen then take my phone and open up my conversation with Baz. Our messages look incredibly one-sided; there’s always five of mine to one of his, but that’s all he needs because I’m shit with words and he always knows exactly how to get maximum asshole impact with minimum syllables.

I cringe when I see my last text to him though. I look like a complete idiot and Penny’s already pre-typed an apology to him in the textbox for me to send.

I erase the whole thing and just type, “happy new year prick.’

**Baz**

I hate that my heart clenches when I see a message from Simon. It’s agonizing not replying back, but even an insult is feeding into our connection and the universe will have once again successfully gotten us to interact because of the soulmate bond. His interest in me will die down in a couple weeks. We’re just hyper-aware of each other around New Years.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Two months into the New Year_ **

 

**Baz**

And as usual, I’m right.

Simon’s random texts stop as classes start back up for us. I’m also assuming Agatha is on the verge of taking him back because he posted a picture to his feed of a bouquet of roses. Not that he knows I know that. I’m a proper stalker at this point and leave no trace of me anywhere on his twitter or Instagram. I also don’t respond to Bunce who asks me to take a picture of my eyes for her research.

So, everything is back to my miserable normal.

Until I notice a red string tied onto my pinky.

“What the…” I grab at it and pull on it to make sure it’s real.

This isn’t right. We had the Red String of Fate before, and Fiona and I have concluded that these bonds don’t occur twice. I get up and go to the mirror to check on his eye, but they’re both grey now. It’s only been two months—the soulmate bond _always_ lasts the year before it switches.

I go into my conversation with Simon, but I see that he’s already working on a message for me. I wait, watching the typing bubble until it disappears and a message shows in its place.

_‘baz i think i got the string back. did u pull it? r u ok? do u have it too?’_

I reply, _‘What do you mean you “think.” Do you or don’t you?’_

 _‘i cant deal with the string again baz its a nightmare’_ he sends, ignoring my question.

_‘Tell Penny. I’ll tell Fiona.’_

I quickly send a text to Fiona to call me ASAP, and soon she’s ringing me back and cursing.

“Hello—Hello? There’s no fucking service here. Hello?!”

“I hear you now. Did you hear what I said?”

“What string and what do you mean ‘it’s back’? What about your eyes?”

“They’re back to normal now.”

“Well, good, because you looked stupid wearing sunglasses all the time.”

“Bigger problems here, Fi. Remember when I was twenty, and I told you there was a string tied to my hand? Well, it’s back, and Simon’s got it, too. They don’t come back, they’re not supposed to switch this early either. I don’t know what this is or what the hell is going on—”

“Calm down. It’s only been a day, maybe it’ll go back.”

“Fiona, we’ve had this fucked up schedule of sticking with a new bond every year, and for the _whole_ year, my entire life. That’s twenty-three years of consistency and not even three months into the new year, the system breaks?”

“I’ll have Nickels look into it with me. I won’t tell him it’s you, but he’s good at finding information. Maybe he can help us figure out what’s going on.”

“Fine. Just… I don’t know what to do right now. I have to play later today and if this stupid bond messes me up, I won’t have an excuse to tell my professor other than there’s an invisible string making my hand move.”

“Just stay calm and try to stay out of trouble unless you want it pulling on Simon. He’ll start bombarding your phone.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously, boyo. _Stay_. _Calm_.”

“You’re right. Staying calm.” I breathe in then exhale loudly, shaking my head and trying to tamp down the panic in me. “Pitches don’t panic.”

“Right. And fuck it, skip today. Go watch Netflix. I’ll call you when we find something.” She just hangs up on me, like she’s on an urgent mission and can’t afford to waste even a second on a goodbye. God love her.

She actually believes me, for one. My father and Daphne thought I was just acting bizarre for attention growing up. Even when I showed my father my glowing pencil, he simply patted my head and told me, “Good trick, Basil,” and walked into his study.

Simon and I had opposite problems. My father looked at it like it was a joke. Davy looked at it like power. During our first year being friends again in university, Simon would always tell me when Davy came around the Bunce’s house asking about him.

Of course, Mrs. Bunce always played dumb and simply threatened to call the police when he’d keep insisting, but Simon stayed safely concealed and disconnected until Davy was on a hospital bed begging Simon to save him. And he couldn’t; it wasn’t like that. It still messed up Simon for a while.

Unfortunately, Simon stays on my mind most of the day, and when I’m on my way back to my room, I can’t help but reminisce through all the years of bonds and miss him. Because of that, I start getting a flood of texts, all the same:

_‘r u pulling?’_

_‘whats going on?’_

_‘seriously answer me the string wont leave me alone!’_

_‘…did u find anything?’_

That’s the only one I answer, I allow myself that much contact and simply message back, _‘No.’_

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not as handsome, but like a knock-off version of Baz.”

**Baz**

I’d like to say that the heterochromia comes back. Or, that we get used to the string being a part of our lives again.

But we were wrong about it being a nightmare before.

Because this time around, our soulmate magic is hellish.

There’s no slack, for one. It’s always digging into the flesh of my pinky and sometimes when I’m walking, it’ll jerk and force me to a halt. And a couple minutes ago, Simon texted me that the string pulled him back in front of a fucking moving car.

Which means my soulmate almost _died_ today and we have no bloody idea what’s going on.

I’m so freaked out by the idea of almost losing him again that I hit ‘call’ before I can talk myself out of it because his texting is so atrocious and frazzled all the time.

And, I just need to hear him.

“Baz! Holy shit—holy shit, Baz.”

“Snow—”

“I couldn’t move! I literally got pulled back in front of the car! Even the woman driving said it looked like I got pushed back or something—”

“Simon!”

He stops talking.

“Simon, breathe. Are you okay? Did it hit you?”

“I’m okay. The corner clipped me, but I’m okay. I’m definitely going to have a nasty bruise later, but it’s… okay.”

He keeps saying ‘okay’ like he’s trying to convince himself that he’s okay with almost fucking dying.

“Has anything happened to you?” I didn’t expect him to ask, so I’m caught off guard for a moment.

“It made me cut myself shaving.”

“You need to use a regular goddamn razor instead of your Sweeney Todd bullshit. The string might pull, and you’ll slit your throat or something.” He sounds worried, and the thought sends my heart fluttering again because he cares.

(I’m helplessly pathetic.)

“Baz, why is this happening?”

“I don’t know. But, how long has it been? Almost a month with the string?”

“What if it switches again?”

“What?”

“Every year, it changes. This time, our eyes changed after a couple months. What if it’s on a new fucked up schedule? I don’t think I can handle it changing more than once a year.”

“At this point, anything’s better than the string.”

“I hope we can swap hair next.”

I let out a strangled laugh because he almost died and he’s trying to use humor to cope with the fact that our soulmate bond almost took one of us out.

“Seriously,” he insists. “I think I could deal with that. The darkness might bring out my eyes more.”

“You’re a bloody idiot, Snow.”

“You called me Simon before.”

I freeze up and strip every ounce of emotion from my voice. “No, I didn’t.”

“Baz, come on.”

That’s enough of this. He’s alive. He’s okay which means I’m okay.

But actually hearing his voice and speak my name for the first time in a year is too much. I wonder if he missed my voice as much as I missed his. Listening to him speak in videos he posts gets repetitive; actually eliciting a direct response from him is breaking the promise I always make to myself to keep him away.

“If you almost die again, call me,” I say and hang up.

 

**Simon**

I don’t know why he has to be like that. Why can’t he just be my friend? He can’t seriously still be jealous of me.

First off, he’s perfect. He’s both intelligent _and_ clever—though I don’t like the clever part when it’s trying to get a one-up on me. When he used to post on his social medias, tons of girls would comment and try for his attention, so it’s not like he can’t get a date.

“So why is he so threatened by me? What could I possibly take away from him besides my girlfriend?” I ask Penny after a week of stewing about our call.

“Ex-girlfriend. And I already told you what I think about the situation. You’ve been ranting about Baz for a week now, but my opinion’s not changed.”

“Nuh-uh. Baz isn’t gay. He would’ve told me.”

“You’re so dense. Baz is gay, and he’s your soulmate.”

“But I’m straight and Agatha is my soulmate. So, that doesn’t make sense. Baz is a friend-mate if anything.”

She sighs and rips off her glasses. “I literally have zero leads, Simon. There’s no research on this. I’ve checked legends, lore, even fanfiction. Nothing says anything about your soulmate-string trying to kill you two.”

“It only tried to kill me. Baz nicked himself shaving, but that’s it.”

“How long have you had the string now?”

“It’ll be a month today. Our eyes lasted two.”

“Then that means we have to wait another month to see if it switches again.”

“What if something happens to Baz before then?” I ask. “We have to figure this out before it gets the chance to hurt him.”

She gives me a strange look.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. We’ll just have to keep tabs on the both of you in case there are any new developments,” she says.

“I hope we can survive a month,” I mumble.

When I wake up the next day, I realize I don’t have to worry because the red string’s gone.

 

* * *

 

**Baz**

When Simon calls me, I think the worst. But then he just tells me the obvious; the string is gone.

“You’re alive then,” I say dismissively.

“Well, yeah. I’m talking to you.”

“And you’re not in the hospital or anything.”

“No, I’m okay, but, Baz, the string’s gone and I don’t know what the bond is now. Do you have a star on your left hand?”

I check it, but it’s just clear skin. “No.”

“That scares me because…”

“I know. It’s one of the ones we can’t see… This is so fucked up. If you figure it out, message me.”

“I’ll call you,” he insists.

“No. Text. I’m hanging up now.” And I do.

I make it to my locker with only a minute to spare, but when I get to class, they’ve already started to get into position. The professor stops waving and the whole ensemble freezes. She raises an eyebrow at me and drawls, “Ah, thank you for joining us, Basilton.”

“I apologize, ma’am.”

“Once Basilton finally decides to join us, we’ll start. Until then, feel free to stare at him while we all wait.”

She’s really not a monster. She’s a brilliant professor, a talented composer, and a veteran conductor. She’s in her seventies and was all but begged by the university to come bless us with her teaching after she retired, and she conceded, claiming that retirement was ‘for people awaiting death.’

She draws her baton up and with one swoop, the flutes begin playing.

But I can’t hear them.

She signals for the rest of the woodwinds, and I can’t hear them either.

I try to be subtle about my panic, but when she signals for the first violins to begin, I instinctively hover my bow then try to draw out the first note.

Everyone jerks to a stop and turns to stare at me.

I keep hearing Fiona telling me over and over, “Handle it, Baz. Pitch up.” But from my professor’s _concerned_ expression—and she doesn’t _do_ concerned or excuses—I must look like death.

I immediately begin packing up, my violin is back in its case before she can even get her full question out.

“What was that—Basil, are you alright?”

I pick up my case, stand up, tear my sheet music off the stand, and rush passed her. “I think I need to go to the hospital—sorry, excuse me.”

My exit’s a bit dramatic, but last time I couldn’t hear music, it lasted an entire year. All the bonds have lasted the year, except this year, and who knows if it’ll be a day, or a week, or a few weeks, or a month before I can hear it all again.

I’m on the verge of having an anxiety attack as I pass each open room, teeming with instruments being played in the music building, and hear absolutely _nothing_ but silence. I skip the elevators and make my way to the staircase. It’s cold, unused, and dark with cinderblock everywhere. I sit down at the top of the steps, pushing my hair back from my face and pulling on the ends until it hurts.

That’s my _class_ and unless I actually am dying, she’s going to fail me if I don’t perform with everyone. Not to mention, I’m the bloody concertmaster; I have a solo that I have to be able to do in my sleep. How do I explain this to anyone?

_What do I do? What the fuck do I do? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—_

My phone starts ringing in my pocket, but I ignore it because it’s probably Fiona and I can’t handle her tough love right now, not when I’m starting to feel nauseous.

Oh god, it feels like something’s squeezing my guts and twisting them into bloody balloon animals. I’m trying to focus on breathing, but I hate this pain, I…

I know this pain.

I pull the sleeve of my shirt back and see it. That fucking timer on my wrist blinking 00:00:00:00 back at me. My phone’s still going off and I immediately take it out and answer.

“The fucking timer’s back!” I hear Simon gasp on the other end of the line.

Immediately, relief fills my body and I stabilize.

“Christ, I forgot how much that hurts. Fuck. Please. Please, don’t ignore me, Baz. I don’t know how the hell we managed it when we were kids, but I can’t handle that feeling anymore.”

“This is impossible! I had to leave my class because I can’t hear music!”

“Shit, really? Hold on, let me play something.”

I wait and I realize I’m trying to listen for music on his end, but I’m not going to hear it because we’re fucking cursed.

Apparently he doesn’t either because he panics and shouts, “Two at one time?! What is going on?”

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“When has this ever made sense?” he asks in exasperation.

“When we were on a constant schedule—when we only had one to deal with at a time,” I shout into the stairway. I hear a door screech over a few flights above me and immediately get a grip on myself. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait, Baz—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll answer if the timer goes off again.” I hang up and stand up, trying to make myself look less paranoid and march down the steps.

Fucking soulmates.

 

**Simon**

Baz isn’t exactly talkative the next time we call each other. I think—no, I _know_ he’s unconsolably upset about the no-music thing. So much that I even consider proposing Penny’s idea again about us meeting and trying to end this. The plan dies on my tongue as soon as I open my mouth though.

If Baz isn’t suggesting it, with the bond affecting his life worse than mine, then I’m not going to. Because I might lose Baz.

But if we really are friendmates, it’s getting sort of toxic now with no rules or sense to follow. Before it was annoying and inconvenient. Now, it’s full on trying to destroy our lives.

Hell, it already tried to _take_ my life… But I still haven’t suggested the meetup either.

This is so screwed up. _I’m_ screwed up.

* * *

 

Baz had to change his alarms because they were all songs.

But fortunately for him, his musical ear comes back and so does mine. Fortunately for _me_ , that means Baz won’t break down and suggest us trying to figure out a way to end our bond either.

 _‘Heard someone whistling.’_ he sends me.

 _‘my timers gone too’_ I respond, shoveling another spoonful of curry into my mouth. Thankfully, the bond has never affected my taste buds. I think I’d end up going insane if I lost taste.

He types back, _‘Yes. Mine, too.’_

_‘then we r all good’_

_‘I was. Until I went to brush my teeth and saw your face in the mirror again. You shouldn’t have cut off your hair.’_

“Fuck,” I whine to my empty room. _‘r u kidding me? i hated that one.’_

Sort of. I get to remind myself of what he looks like. I won’t admit it to him, but besides getting ready, it’s kind of nice…

Sometimes. Whatever. I still hate him.

He doesn’t entertain me that long in our texting. I feel like sometimes he just catches himself being a decent human, and decides, ‘Nope. No more Snow.’ and just cuts me off again. I don’t know why though. It’s not like I’ve blamed him for what happens to us lately. We’ve kind of been finding solace in being screwed over by the universe together.

And he usually doesn’t tell me anything about his life, but this last week, I think he got a little comfortable venting to me about not having music when our timers forced us to talk because now I know he hasn’t been getting sleep lately and that he’s stressed about a midterm presentation this week like me.

Even now without the timers, he’s been talking to me more. Complaining about superficial shit like how he’s worried he’s going to miss a spot shaving, or his hair is going to look ‘unkempt’ with my appearance greeting him in the mirror instead.

Like that will make or break his grade. Vain bastard.

“Is that Baz?” Penny asks me, sitting on the sofa and peering over at my screen. “It’s nice to see you two talking again.”

“He’s still a dickhead to me.”

All she does is hum in response then continue, “So, since Micah’s out of town, should we marathon and order takeout? My treat. Anything you want. Ooh, how about samosas from that new place, what’s it called again?”

I shoot her a glare. “Nice try. We’re still going to Aggie’s play.”

“But she’s not even your girlfriend anymore. Why do we have to go?”

“Because as someone who wants to be her boyfriend again, going to the play she’s been rehearsing for all semester means something.”

“Fine. But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

I roll my eyes. “When are you ever happy with Aggie?”

“When you two aren’t pretending to be in love with each other.”

Ouch. But Penny just doesn’t get it. If not Agatha, then who? I’ve never met any other women I care more for than Aggie and Penny—and Penny is _not_ a romantic possibility, so that means Agatha. That’s just how it is.

Penny’s my best friend. Agatha’s my soulmate. And Baz is my anti-friendmate.

It’s perfect the way it is.

Though it is a little nicer when Baz is a little less ‘anti’ and a little more ‘friend.’

* * *

 

The stage is flush with color, but Agatha in her deep red Juliet-costume is the highlight.

She’s beautiful as Juliet. She’s beautiful as anything, but even more under the stage-lights and in a beaded gown with braids pinning back the rest of her long hair. It’s even silvery in the lighting. She looks like an angel—a woman worth drinking a bottle of poison for.

I know every guy in this audience wishes to be her Romeo even if just to lie by her side in a tomb. It was a little distracting during the play though because Romeo kind of reminds me of Baz.

Not the romantic and soft part, but he kind of looks him. Tall and leggy. Thin, angular features and long-ish dark hair. Not as handsome, but like a knock-off version of Baz. But Baz’s hair looks way softer than this guy’s, and Romeo doesn’t have this little wave in the front when it falls forward around his face like Baz’s does.

The prince’s voice raises and suddenly I’m aware that I’ve been paying more attention to the way Romeo’s hair doesn’t wave and less attention to how well Agatha can play dead on stage.

“…Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo,” the prince finishes.

I jump to my feet as if I’ve been paying attention as soon as I hear Penny clap her hands. I’m whistling and clapping when the entire cast comes out to take a bow. When Agatha is grinning as she looks right at me, I know coming here was the right decision—no matter how much Penny tried to bribe me with food.

She’s still smiling when Penny and I meet her backstage. I have a bouquet of yellow roses for her because I know they’re her favorite and I hope she remembers that I remembered they’re her favorite.

“You guys are coming to the cast party, right?” She beams at us, still riding the high of her performance. “It’s going to be great. It’s at Mercutio’s house.”

I melt at the idea of us spending another party together, drinking and laughing; her dancing, me trying to dance.

“Well,” Penny starts, “we actually should be—”

“Of course, we are!” I nudge at Penny and plead with my eyes. “Right, Pen?”

“Simon, can I talk to you for a minute?” she says lowly.

“What can’t you say in front of me, Penny?” Agatha says icily. I turn back to look at her and she’s got her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. I’m almost surprised she’s not hissing, to be honest, but Aggie’s always grace and class, and reins it in.

I know Penny wants to keep pushing the friendmate thing, but since we’re not allowed to tell Aggie anything, I wonder what she’s going to say.

“Just that tomorrow’s Monday, and Simon has his presentation in the morning,” Pen replies.

“No, that’s Baz’s project. My presentation’s on Tuesday.” I flash a smile at Agatha. “So we’re free to go. Think you can beat everyone at a game of ‘Lines’ again?”

That’s what the theater crew calls it. Basically, they keep taking shots and reciting their lines until one of them forgets, taps out, or blacks out.

“Oh, I can slaughter the whole cast. Care to come watch the carnage, Simon?” she asks. My heart leaps when she pulls me away from Penny and out towards the backdoor.

“Text you later, Pen!” I shout over my shoulder. I know she’s glaring at me.

 

**Baz**

It’s Monday and I sleep in a little longer because I’ve been practicing my speech, my gestures, and even where and when to point on each slide for the last week. It’s going to be an easy credit. I practically just need to show up.

I watch myself in the mirror the whole time I brush my teeth because watching Simon puts me at ease even if the smile I give myself isn’t as bright as his can be. I don’t think I could ever be as alive as him.

It’s 7:55AM now.

I’ve got my flash drive in my professor’s laptop, setting up my slides in class. The projector’s working. My files are in order. The teaching assistant is already placing my handouts at the end of each row in the auditorium. I even have time to chit-chat with the instructor beforehand on some recreational reading I’ve been doing that, of course, impresses him, as everyone takes their seats.

Soon, introductions begin as I stand off confidently to the side and smirk at the crestfallen faces of my classmates as they look over the presentation outlines I’ve printed out. It was unnecessary to do so, but the professor appreciated it and now it’s been announced as the new standard for the rest of the projects. Problem for everyone else is that their presentations are _sorely_ lacking the structure and thoroughness of mine.

“Basil, whenever you’re ready to begin.”

“Thank you,” I say with a slight nod to my professor.

I slowly pace the floor as I start my introduction, knowing exactly how good I look in this shirt and that not a strand of hair is out of place according to the selfie I took outside class.

Mid-way through my argument, everything continues to go exactly as planned and I’m about to enter the showier part of my presentation.

I have four slides lined up back to back, simply with the name of the author and nothing else because I’ve memorized all four substantially long quotes and it’ll have to be all eyes on me while I recite them by heart.

Is it a bit of a power move? Sure, but I’m a Pitch. Power’s in the name and soon everyone is in absolute rapture over my recitations.

I turn to face the screen and read the next name.

“And, to paraphrase Aristotle—in Book II, he explains that anyone can get angry. That is easy—”

I still have my back turned to the audience, just casually staring up at the empty slide with the larger than life _‘Aristotle’_ in the center.

I can taste victory already, so I turn around, really emoting the words.

“But to do this, to be angry, at the right person, to the _right_ extent at the _right_ time with the _right_ …”

I pause because a woman in the front row just let out an obnoxiously loud gasp.

“…motive.”

The guy next to her takes out his phone and points the camera at me, and I’m wondering what the hell they’re all gawking at.

Then from the corner of my eye, I see it.

Ink seeping into the back of my hand, materializing in front of the crowded room. I look up expecting everyone to start raving about magic like Davy had done to Simon, but instead, I hear giggling which turns to snorts and then full-blown laughter.

My professor looks transfixed by my face and all I can think is:

What.

The bloody fuck.

Did Simon do now.

I don’t wait. I just turn around and walk right out the door, bee-lining straight for the bathroom down the hall, and when I see myself in the mirror— _Simon’s_ fucking face in the mirror.

My blood runs cold.

“You stupid fucking idiot!” I yell at his face in the reflection.

I have a dark, solid black circle around my left eye, ‘Shakespeare sucks’ across my forehead, squiggles and lines, and a fucking dick across one of my cheeks. All in permanent black marker and all over my fucking face.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And Baz always has a mocking tone when he speaks to me, but there’s something definitely sexier about the way his voice is mocking me now—Fuck. Did I just think Baz was sexy? Did he hear that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning this chapter is NSFW and may be triggering as it deals with the issue of non-consent at first.

**Simon**

I don’t know where I am when I wake up.

This is the second time I’ve experienced this disorientation this year and I’m afraid I’m starting to make a habit out of drinking too much at parties. Or on some level, becoming like my father.

What I do remember is that I did shots with Mercutio.

Then the guy who played Romeo came over and started teasing me about my accent.

Then Romeo—or knock-off Baz—started doing accents, too. And he actually kind of started to sound all prim like Baz once he got it down.

Somehow we ended up on the couch… knock-off Baz sitting on my lap… playing with my hair and leaning in _really_ close to me—which is really confusing now that I think about it. Because I kind of didn’t mind it and just let him keep doing it for a while.

But I was also drunk. So, I’ll just chalk that up to alcohol.

Then things got even more confusing when I saw my Juliet from across the room making out with her Nurse and it snapped me out of my insanity.

I brushed Romeo off and went straight up to Agatha.

“Aggie, what are you doing? I thought we were just on a break!”

Agatha pulled away from the Nurse and looked back at me, almost annoyed when _she_ was the one making out with someone else.

She dragged me to an empty corner after and hissed, “Don’t make a scene, Simon. We’re not on a break. We broke up.”

“But we always get back together. That’s what we do.”

“Simon, we can’t keep doing this. _I_ can’t keep doing this.”

“So, what, you’re leaving me for her?” I fumed, pointing accusingly at the poor, awkward woman retreating deeper into the house and away from us.

“No, I was just…”

“Because if you’re in love with someone else then just be honest about—“

“I’m not in love with anybody! I just wanted to see if—if— _Ugh!”_ She huffed in frustration then gave me a tired look I’d never seen on her before. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Simon. I think you should see other people. Find someone else.”

“ _You_ invited _me_ ,” I told her.

“It’s a party! I invited you as a friend.”

“A _friend_?”

“All you do is hang out with Penny and Micah. And you’ve been so stressed these last few months. I thought you could use a change of company. And I saw you with Romeo, you two looked comfy.”

“Romeo’s a _guy_ ,” I said quickly. “Aggie, we’ve been together since we were fifteen.”

“We’ve been on-and-off since we were fifteen.”

I stared at her in disbelief then. “We’re high school sweethearts turned college sweethearts for christ’s sake. This is it. We have what everyone wants.”

“Aren’t you tired of this? Don’t you want to find your real soulmate?”

“ _You_ are my soulmate.”

“I hope I’m not, Simon… Because I don’t think I’m anyone’s soulmate.”

“Aggie…” 

“I’m really sorry. But we’re not getting back together this time. It’s done. I’m done trying.”

…Agatha broke up with me.

All this sinks back in as consciousness and my hangover menacingly creeps over me. I sit up on Mercutio’s couch and look at the other stragglers passed out around me.

And it’s the worst feeling in the world being rejected by your soulmate.

I pat myself down to check for my phone.

 _‘Check between the couch cushions,’_ I hear.

I look around dumbly then realize it’s in my head. _‘Baz?’_

_‘Who else would it be, you bloody idiot. Oh and have fun walking home. I suggest you walk through traffic. Try with your eyes closed.’_

I rub sleep from my eyes and think back, _‘Who pissed in your cornflakes?’_

In between the cushions I do find my phone. I’ve got a missed call from Penny and a shit ton of texts from Baz. I open up Baz’s messages first and the latest one is from a few hours ago.

It reads:

_‘You fucking disaster, if I ever find out you’re on my side of the Atlantic, I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.’_

The rest are all threats, too. My head is throbbing and the anger in the messages make it worse.

 _‘Baz?’_ I think to him. _‘What did I do?’_

For a brief moment I get a flash of an image. Of a confused and giggling auditorium of people staring at me—at him.

 _‘Fuck, was that your presentation?’_ I think to him. I know he must be angry. The only time I get slips of things from his head is when his emotions are out of control. He doesn’t answer me, so I ask, _‘What happened?’_

_‘Like I said. Go play in traffic.’_

_‘Baz?’_ He doesn’t answer. I’m too hungover to tell if the connection’s faded, or he just checked his emotions and took control again. _‘Baz...?’_

Fuck.

What did I do?

 

* * *

 

I knew something was wrong when I went through a busy part of campus and people started laughing at me. Particularly when someone said, “Rule #1, dude. Never be the first person to pass out at a party,” with a shake of his head and a sympathetic pat on my shoulder.

When I’m back in my room and finally get a look at the mirror, my stomach drops and I hate myself immediately. Probably even more than Baz does.

There, staring back at me, is Baz’s face covered in Sharpie drawings, including a very detailed dick on his left cheek. Hair on the nuts and everything.

 _‘…Baz?’_ I try, almost scared. He still doesn’t answer, but I know he’s listening.

He’s better at blocking his thoughts from me than I’m able to. Still, when the connection’s on, it’s like having an echo in your head—twice the room for my pitiful call to ring out. And sometimes I just know he’s in there, lurking in the shadows of my own selfishness and self-focus.

God, I’m a mess. I guess this really isn’t fair to him.

 _‘I’m so sorry… Was it during your presentation?’_ I think and grab a hand wipe. I immediately start scrubbing at his face in the mirror. _‘I just got upset and started doing shots because Aggie broke up with me. But we broke up for real this time and—‘_

_‘Shut up.’_

_‘But—’_

_‘Shut up. Stop thinking. It should be easy, you’re good at it.’_

_‘It’s just hard because Aggie wouldn’t even—’_

His tone is angrier when he cuts off my train of thought again, and suddenly I’m assaulted by visions of his classmates, camera flashes, and dodging people while hiding my face, or his face.

 _‘You’ve ruined my presentation,’_ he begins. _‘You’ve ruined my reputation. Stop ruining my day with more of your unbearable hetero relationship drama. No one wants to hear it, Snow—I think you’re pathetic. Penny no doubt thinks it’s pathetic. And Agatha thinks you’re pathetic which is why she broke up with you. So, stop trying to talk to me. I’m done with you just like everyone else is. Now let me stew in self-pity in peace.’_

It feels like a blow that Davy would’ve landed on me, but worse because it’s from Baz and I hate that that means something more to me.

But I feel like death, and my soulmate rejected me, and there’s no way in the world he could ever imagine what that feels like. _‘What do you mean, hetero? And shit, can’t you just be a decent human for once and feel something for someone else? You can’t even imagine what it’s like to have someone you love break your heart.’_

All Baz replies is, _‘Fuck. Off. Snow.’_

If I hadn’t just made him do his presentation with a dick drawn on his face, I would’ve thought that Baz was behind this evil magic. Because again as if on cue, the connection fades out and I’m left with only my own misery and guilt inside my head.

* * *

 

The next day, I’m already running late to my presentation and I’m downright panicked when I hear his voice right before it begins.

_‘Good luck on your presentation, Snow.’_

_‘Baz.’_ I plead, willing him to see all the people in front of me, hoping it’ll draw some pity. _‘I’m not like you, I need this grade to pass. You know I’m shit at my Communications class.’_

_‘Whatever do you mean?’_

I try to focus in on his end and get a flash of his laptop. He’s pulling up a white screen with blocks of text.

Good, so he’s just studying.

I still ask, _‘Are you plotting to ruin it?’_

_‘Why would I do that?’_

_‘Because I fucked up yours,’_ I admit. No justification. No appealing for pity because of Agatha. Just me owning my shit. _‘I’m sorry.’_

 _‘Oh, that?’_ His tone is two things at once. One, what he’s putting on in his head, like when you read a story and put on a different voice for each character. He’s calm, nonchalant, like nothing in the world could faze him. But on the other hand, there’s a sharp edge underneath it. Something he can’t quite cover up in our shared mind even with concentration. _‘I had already forgotten. My professor was very understanding yesterday.’_

I see his teacher’s face in my mind. Gawking and wide-eyed.

Baz is lying to me. He’s extremely… something. Anger? Embarrassment? I shouldn’t be able to see this much into him.

 _‘Oh… I’m glad it worked out then?’_ I think to him.

He doesn’t answer, but I can still hear that faint echo. And I can also see the screen of small text in my mind still. It’s blurry and I can’t tell if it’s the connection fading or Baz’s expertise at blocking me. The fact that he can’t block it out completely from me still keeps me nervous and paranoid though.

Make me think he’s up to something so I psyche myself out. Maybe that’s his plot.

 _‘That’s not my plot, Snow,’_ he responds.

“Simon, we’re ready when you are,” my teacher says.

“Right. Um, so yeah.” I turn to the class and recite, “Communicating is a really complex process. Um, we use symbols… And, um…”

_‘Use your words.’_

Fuck he’s still in my head. _‘Baz. Can you not? I need to focus—‘_

“Symbols?” my teacher interrupts the conversation in my head. I snap back out of my head and focus on the class again.

“Right. Sorry. My brain blanked.” I glance over my notecard again. “Okay, so words—phrases and sentences, they’re all just made up of symbols. Symbols that we use to put thoughts and ideas into other people’s heads. Like with language. Language is what’s called a ‘verbal code’—”

 

 

> _ ‘My breath hitches when he brushes the tips of his fingers under my shirt.’ _

I pause.

What did Baz just say?

 

 

> _ ‘He pushes my legs wider apart with his knee and I rock against his thigh—’ _

…What?

 

 

> _ ‘—I think about how long I’ve wanted this. Fantasized about his rough hands—’ _

…Um…

 

 

> _'— holding me still, pinning my wrists up above me so all I can do is writhe under him and obey if I want to get—’_

I go dumb for a moment and only snap out of it when I hear a cough from my group trying to get me to continue. ‘ _What the fuck is going on,_ ’ I think, forgetting Baz can hear that, as he continues to read a script…?

 

 

> _ ‘ _ _ He can’t possibly imagine how many times I’ve run my hand down my stomach, imagining it was the heat of his mouth sliding lower instead, moving downward, opening wide to take in the head of my coc—' _

I start talking again.

Half my head is on figuring out what’s going on; the other half scrambles to read and repeat the bullet points on my notecard. I speak louder, think about my speech louder. But as I speak, my mind is slowly slipping away from the fun fact about world languages and more locked onto how much louder and frenzied Baz’s narration is getting every time he reads the words ‘cock,’ ‘moaning,’ and ‘beg.’

“Simon?” I faintly register someone saying.

I think it’s my teacher. Right. Because I’m currently giving a presentation in front of people.

While a porno is playing out in my head in Baz’s voice and imagination.

“Simon,” she says again.

“Yes?!” I say a little too high-pitched as Baz dramatically moans in my head.

I think I’ve repeated the same word at least four times now.

 

 

> _ ‘”—What if someone finds out about us?” I ask breathlessly, but he grinds into me and I lose all ability to think.’ _

I can’t even form a complete thought, but I know Baz is picking up on fragments of my curiosity and urge for him to keep on with whatever the hell this is.

 

 

> _ ‘“Maybe I want them to.” He nips at my bottom lip, dragging it back and releasing it only to smirk. “I don’t care if everyone knows you’re mine. Because you are, aren’t you? Mine. You love it.”’ _

“I—um—” I think I’m stuttering to the class, but my attention is so preoccupied, it’s more of an automatic response to stall for time in the real world.

 

 

> _ ‘He shoves his hand between my legs and squeezes me, his grip so hot and tight in the cold night. “See? Look how hard you are for me—bet you’d love to see my lips wrapped aroun—”‘_

And it goes silent.

The bond’s faded.

I swallow and take a breath to compose myself. “Right, sorry.” I clear my throat and settle back into the quietness of my head, “But, uh—” I scan my notecards and just pick up on what seems like a good spot because I have no idea what I’ve been saying. “There are nonverbal codes. Symbols that work outside of language. Such as sound, bodily movements, hand gestures _…_ ”

 

 

> _ ‘He drags his mouth across my skin, hovering above my pulse.’ _

He’s back.

 

 

> _ ‘My hips thrust into his hand as he sucks red bruises into my skin that make me hiss in pleasure. And I want him—’ _

Baz is still here. And I shouldn’t feel relieved, but...

 

 

> _ ‘We could be caught, but all I can think of is how warm and wet his mouth is on my sk—’ _

I forget my train of thought again as I’m sucked right back into this hot scene about—Oh my god. My eyes widen. _‘Shit,’_ I silently curse. _‘Did I think that? Did he hear that?’_ I close my eyes again, but as soon as I lose visuals on my surroundings, all I can imagine is what he’s describing and, fuck, did it get hotter in here? Did they put up the heater?

 

 

> _ ‘ _ _ —I can imagine his swirling tongue laving the underside of my cock until I’m a babbling mess, licking— _

I feel a shiver race down my spine.

 

 

> _'…he squeezes tighter and I groan.’ _

Baz reenacts the groan to make me lose my mind.

 

> _ ‘I forget to stay quiet, but my outburst is cut short by his mouth on mine, teeth clashing while he strokes faster and harder. I’m so close, everything dissolving into waves of fire. My hips begin to stutter. But then he stops right when I need him to keep moving, and grunts out that we’re nowhere near done yet. He sinks to his knees and looks up at me...‘ _

“Er…” I think I’m just making noises on autopilot right now.

“Is it like stage fright?” someone says in the front row.

I feel like I’m sweating, like someone’s actually cranked the heat in the room to two hundred degrees. And all the blood in me is pumping faster than my breaths can keep up with.

I don’t understand why my pants feel so uncomfortably tight because Baz—who is a _guy_ —is reading about two other people—who are also _guys_ —getting off in an alleyway behind some bar and I think I have my eyes closed as I focus on it.

“What’s wrong with him?”

My teacher hushes another student and clears her throat patiently. “Try not to think about it, Simon,” she says.

My eyes snap open, scared for a minute that she somehow hears the very loud sound effects of gasping, panting, and moaning that Baz is heavily acting out for me because my stray thoughts keep telling him to—to pant more desperately, to moan louder and longer. Fuck, what does this mean for me? For us?

And I know he just heard that, too.

“Everyone gets public speaking jitters. Just, why don’t you go back to verbal codes again,” she says with a pitying smile. She knows I’m bad at Communications, even though my writing is pretty good. The whole class knows I’m bad. And right now, I’m just the class idiot who’s been stuttering through a speech for the last ten minutes. Not to mention hiding a growing tent in his pants while his anti-friendmate reenacts porn in his head.

“…Verbal… codes are…”

 

 

> _ ‘“Again. Please. Touch me,” I whimper. He splays his hand across my stomach, pushing me back against the cold brick, and I feel the hot breath of his laugh across my—’ _

“…codes are designed… to evoke…” I can practically see the words from his laptop in my head, like he’s _trying_ to take over my mind. “…sensation… Wait! I mean. No, not sensation—” I stop reading his text and scramble my attention back to the present and my notecards, dropping a few on the tile, so I can be done with this already and focus on the one thing I’m always good at obsessing about: Baz. Shit. He must’ve heard that, too, because he definitely sounds more enthusastic now. “Sorry, I meant emotion, or—or—”

 

> _ ‘”I love the pretty noises you make.”’ _

“Or—”

 

> _ ‘’Are you close, baby?’’  _

I make a slight squeak of what I can only describe as pure desperation and start spitting out words as fast as I can read them so I can get out of here. Because this presentation doesn’t seem as important as getting somewhere private where I can listen to him as much as I want. “Words-that-challenge-ideas-identities-or-our-sense-of-self—”

 

 

> _ ‘‘Should I let you come, love? Would you like that? I want to wrap my mouth around you… thick and heavy on my tongue, filling me up. I could make you beg so nice again—’’ _

Something in my stomach is pulling tighter and I fight off a full body shiver, as I breathlessly spit out words to the audience almost as fast as Baz is reading his.

He is the perfect cast for the man he’s reading, too. He’s cocky and arrogant. And Baz always has a mocking tone when he speaks to me, but there’s something definitely sexier about the way his voice is mocking me now—

 _Fuck_. Did I just think Baz was sexy? Did he hear that?

 

 

> _ ‘“Say please, love.” _
> 
> _ ‘“Please!” _
> 
> _ ‘“I don’t quite believe you, darling. You’re gonna have to try harder than that…”’ _

I forget about my presentation and fully stop to listen to every bit of ‘verbal code’ Baz speaks to me. I don’t care about codes or grades or the people expecting me to finish. All I feel is the need to find out if the man is ever going to give his lover what he wants.

Baz’s words are filling up every space in my head—all I hear is him asking me if I like what he’s doing to me—I mean, what the _character_ is doing to the other man—And if this is what I’ve dreamed about—

I mean—wait—no, no, if the _character’s_ dreamed about this—not me, I’m straight, I’m not, I have Agatha, I—I—

I can’t. It’s too confusing and despite my better judgement, I’m bored with Communications and too invested in helping Baz’s narration build a picture in our heads with visuals. And I don’t know what’s the story, what’s him, what’s me, whose mouth is on whose cock and who’s swallowing around it and whose hair is being clawed and who’s thrusting forward. All I can hear is Baz, all I see is Baz, and all I can think about is Baz’s story.

Everything in my head is him, and five million different words for ‘hard’, and the dirty things he’s whispering in my head.

Next to Baz’s voice blaring in my head, acting out the scene like he’s the goddamn lovechild of an audiobook and porno, I hear all my classmates’ as they ask each other what the fuck is wrong with me.

If I’m having a breakdown in the middle of a presentation.

My knees buckle when Baz starts panting and moaning curses in my head, and my whole body shudders forward from the echo.

Without breaking character, Baz asks, _‘Now, tell me, Simon…’_

And he rasps my name; not ‘Snow’, not ‘disaster’ or ‘idiot’—‘Simon,’ and much more seductively than I need to hear right now.

_‘Do you want me to keep going?’_

He’s mocking, sultry, and _fuck,_ I don’t even question why I don’t want him to stop talking. Why I need him to keep reciting filthy lines in my head, and what this means for us.

He waits and it’s quiet again.

The whole room is staring back at me and I make a decision when someone else clears their throat. I shove my notecards in my pocket, and think back to him:

_’Yes.’_

He knows everything, can see into my head, my decision-making, my want for this. But I know he’s still shocked that I’m giving up my presentation for this. For him.

 _‘...Keep going,’_ I think again, and he does. He keeps on with the climax of the scene.

I realize the podium was effectively hiding a big problem and snatch my messenger bag at my feet to hide that problem before I tear out through the door right behind me. My face must be bright fucking red because my skin is burning hot, my heart racing. And there’s this fearless, demanding need for the tightness in stomach to just come undone already.

Thank god I make it to the bathroom without running into anyone. I clamber into one of the stalls, fumbling with the lock, and clamp a hand over my mouth. I close my eyes to finally give in.

 

 

> _ ‘“That’s it—Be a good boy and tell me how much you deserve it…’’ _

I’m not really thinking when I frantically shove my hand down my pants, or when I’m not separating Baz from the character he’s reading. Or when I’m visualizing me in that equation _with_ Baz when I’m too far gone to stop my head from plummeting down that rabbit hole.

I have enough sense to at least try not to gasp out when I finally snap, when I’m pulsing and all burning fire in my veins, but I do. My voice pitches higher and a moan erupts from my throat long and loud into the echo of the cold bathroom.

I rest my weight against the corner of the stall, my hand still down my boxers, moving lightly with the slow shockwaves still pulsing through. After a few moments of panting, I feel myself softening in my hand. It’s a sticky mess, but I’m too heady and breathless to care, and jesus fucking christ, _what the flying fuck just happened_. When I start to come down and I’m too sensitive to take anymore, I stop and let my head loll against the door, just listening to the thrum of my heart in my chest while my mind sits empty and sated.

It’s finally quiet when he next speaks.

No more moaning. No more crying out. No more seduction laced into his voice.

_‘So, Snow. Would you say ‘nonverbal’ or ‘verbal’ cues are more effective?’_

“Fuck.”

Then someone flushes in the stall next to me and awkwardly clears their throat.

I’m burning with embarrassment as they go to wash their hands and I’m holed up in the stall with my hand in my pants.

Fucking friendmates.

Or maybe...

 

* * *

 

 

**Baz**

One thing about the mind link is that it usually works in my favor.

I make it a point every time the connection is on to start reading the gayest smut I can find on the internet out of spite, for years of repressed resentment and hate about having to listen to all of Simon’s commentary about his girlfriend’s _this_ and his girlfriend’s _that_. And if Simon didn’t know anything about the big, wide world of erotic literature, he sure is an expert in the recycled phrasings of the word ‘moan’ now.

And before our mind link severed completely yesterday, I was spying and caught him reading rather loudly in his head—because Simon requires every one of his moronic brain cells for the task—some Google search results for:

‘am i gay?’

Again. Poor guy.

 _‘You’re probably not gay,’_ I think to him now. I can see his latest article on his phone through the link. It looks like he’s at home. I’m happily sipping a mocha in the corner of a café.

 _‘Are you just trying to lull me into a false sense of security?’_ he replies.

I smile as I drink my coffee. _‘Why would you think that?’_

_‘Because you haven’t responded to my texts.’_

_‘I never respond to your messages.’_

_‘Yeah. But. The link, too. Whenever I ask you something, you just start reading out porn in your head instead. This is like the first time in days that you’re actually talking to me and not just to ask me if I want you to keep on reading.’_

He’s right. So I pick up my phone to correct this problem and start scrolling through the bookmarks list I’ve named ‘Simon’. I pick his favorite. A long work that has the bar-scene I first read to him during his presentation. If his thoughts and mantras to not masturbate when I read it are anything to go by, I’ve learned that Simon enjoys the character’s proclivity toward ‘verbal codes’ more than nonverbal.

Probably because Simon’s shit at speaking, and go figure his turn on would be dirty talk.

Part of me wonders if he just likes hearing _me_ say it to him, but I instinctively bury that thought deep down where he can’t hear or find it in the connection, and focus very hard on finding the place where we left off.

I think to him, _‘I believe we were on chapter sixteen when we last left off. They’re in a sex club now, if you remember. Hope whips don’t scare you.’_

_‘I see your table. Your coffee cup. How are you reading this in public?’_

_‘Skill, Snow.’_

_‘Baz—are you gay?’_

There are flashes of things that don’t belong to me in my head. Because Simon can’t control his bloody thoughts.

Flashes of Agatha then flashes of me. Her smiling at him, me smiling at him. Her laughing, me laughing. Her looking adoringly at him. Me fondly looking at him like he’s a particularly amusing idiot.

But mostly it’s like he’s comparing the two of us. And with the implication of his Google searches this week, my heart catches at the possibility that my soulmate might be looking at me as something other than a platonic buddy to talk to about women.

_‘Of course, I’m gay, you dolt.’_

_‘When did you become gay…?’_ he asks, and I know he doesn’t mean, ‘When did you flip the switch from straight to gay?’ because Simon isn’t that stupid.

But he’s definitely confused. I can see in his head that I’ve challenged every instance of his stubborn rebuttals—“Nah, Baz is straight. I’m straight,”—to Bunce’s argument, “He’s your soulmate, Si. What else could this all be?”

(Which I didn’t know she pushed on him so much. I feel rather fond of Penny right now.)

 _‘I’ve always been gay,’_ I still answer his question. _‘You just don’t pay attention.’_

He’s thinking about all the quizzes he’s taken—and not the Buzzfeed or entertainment-esque quizzes either. Proper ones. Like the Kinsey Scale.

So, I think to him, _‘I’m a 6 on the Kinsey.’_

 _‘So, in your gay opinion, do you think I’m gay, too?’_ He’s thinking about his test results now. He scored ‘3’ twice and ‘2’ on the first time when he wasn’t answering honestly. (His thought on it. Not mine.)

_‘No, Simon. I think you’re bi.’_

His thoughts come crashing into my head all at once. _‘If I’m bi then—have you ever—or do you think we could be—’_

And just like that, the connection is off, and I’ve spilled coffee on my shirt and lap because I’m a hopeless, pining idiot and I just caught a faint flicker of his train of thought before the mind link severed.

For a second, I thought I heard an echo of Simon’s voice saying, ‘soulmate.’

Voluntarily.

Not ‘friendmate.’

I wait for him to text me, to finish asking his question.

But he doesn’t.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I already know that just because thinking about him hurts me more than anything in my life ever could, I can never stop thinking about him.”

**Baz**

That was the last of the mind link. So Simon’s self-discoveries are off limits to me now.

In addition, his silence and limited responses via phone are turning from sheer disappointment to more of a concern when we start our new bond:

Sharing luck.

When I was ten, I had a spell of bad luck for months, but it seems this time, it’s favoring me. Still, Simon won’t talk to me.

Even my attempts to bait him with texts about the free coffees I’ve been getting in the mornings, or the money that just seems to offer itself right there on the pavement from building to building on campus, aren’t eliciting anything but half-hearted acknowledgement back from him.

I send him, _‘Just got back another assignment. Full-marks again. It’s my fifth one today  and I didn’t even try. How’s your day panning out, Snow? Win the lottery yet?’_ because I know full well that if my day is going great, his must be utter shit.

I wait at my desk just staring at my phone while everyone packs up around me.

I want him to say something. Text me that I’m an arsehole. Call me to yell about his ruined shirt from a drink someone accidentally spilled onto him. Or how it’s hard to read my messages from a cracked phone screen. Or even simply tell me it’s all my fault—that I’m evil and I’ve used my evil magic because I’m his evil ‘anti-friendmate’.

I just want him to say something that he _means_. Because Simon Snow is upfront about everything, especially to me. Even if it is usually outrage.

Instead, I swipe over to my inbox and see all he’s written is:

_‘no lottery haha.’_

The thing about Simon is that he always tries to connect with me. It’s why he blows up my phone like a burst floodgate whenever the soulmate bond gives him even the smallest excuse.

“Basil.”

I look up, but I have no idea what my professor just told us to do this weekend and why he’s standing at my station.

“I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘Well, I already wrote about that in my last paper.’ Well, it’s your lucky day. Consider yourself exempt from the assignment.”

“But—” He raises his hand to silence me.

“No ‘buts.’ I believe effort should be rewarded, and you took initiative last assignment. Full-marks,” he declares then dismisses me with a smile. “Enjoy your free weekend. See you Monday.”

When I leave the class, I immediately take out my phone and shoot Simon another text.

This time he doesn’t even bother replying.

 

**Simon**

I’ve lost my student ID.

I’ve lost my wallet.

Fifty dollars in that wallet.

My keys.

My backup key.

My phone.

But later, I found my phone when Baz texted me he got splashed by a car driving around the corner through a puddle.

Then after a minute, I dropped it and cracked the entire screen when a nearby person felt bad for Baz’s wet clothes and decided to buy him lunch to ‘brighten his day.’

My laundry hamper is filled with shirts stained with coffees, teas, blue sports drinks, and the spaghetti sauce from some other person’s dinner tray in the mess hall a couple nights ago.

So, I started wearing black to avoid stains, and drinking water because who cares if you spill that?

Luckily, when I did spill it, it didn’t even show on my shirt.

Unluckily, it did however invoke the wrath of the technological gods who’ve condemned my wet laptop so it no longer turns on. My essays weren’t backed up to my online drive, and in having to re-do them, I also just got an e-mail from the professor saying that “in order to keep with the syllabus, the due dates for the following assignments have been pushed up.”

In addition to cancelling my credit card, re-ordering an ID from the school, pricing out the cost of fixing my phone, living off of vending machine food to avoid being scalded by other people’s dinner, lamenting over my laptop, and _unluckily_ being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone on the soccer field launched a ball through the air—

I spend the rest of my week re-thinking everything I know about myself. About my future with Agatha… about Baz turning into a jerk towards me when she and I got together.

And about how I have a weird, freaky magical bond with someone across the world, who I’ve never met aside from one time when I fucking teleported through space.

Someone who I always thought was straight while I thought my girlfriend and I were straight, too. And now all assumptions seem so ridiculous in hindsight to what Agatha is telling me right now as she miraculously takes apart my phone. New screen still packaged next to her.

“If I had to be with anyone, Simon, it’d be you. But I’m just… not wired like that. I thought that maybe I just hadn’t met the right guy. Later, that I just hadn’t met the right woman. Or, more likely that I just wasn’t trying hard enough.”

She tosses my cracked screen in the trash with practiced ease and I think about what kind of bad luck Baz must be having right now; now that my life has taken a pause from spiraling.

“But I get it now,” Agatha says. “It wasn’t that I didn’t like you and Baz talking all the time before. It’s just that… You two seemed to have something that I thought you and I were supposed to have, and the lack of it stressed me out because, well, you know my parents. Happily Ever After, and all that.”

“Baz…?” I repeat stupidly.

“I honestly didn’t know he was queer, too. I know Penny always made her ‘soulmate’ comments all the time, but I genuinely had no clue. But, I mean, it makes sense, right? He was obviously into you before. Probably still is. What do I know though?”

She unwraps the shiny, new screen and blows a couple pieces of dust away before she sets it down to connect it to the rest of the phone. She’s so focused on it that she doesn’t see the little twitch in my brow or how my mouth drops open to say the infamous—and now really stupid sounding—reply I’ve given every time this idea has been brought up:

That Baz is straight. I’m straight. Agatha is straight. And she’s my destiny.

That I think she’s beautiful because I’m only attracted to women, and that I think Baz is perfect and beautiful, too, but _not_ because I’m attracted to him or any guys for that matter.

Or how every instance of ‘magic’ that everyone’s research says is a soulmate situation is just purely coincidental. That it has absolutely no meaning or underlying plan other than being random chance.

It’s all so stupid now.

So, I don’t say any of it. I just slump down in my chair more, with ketchup crusting on the front of my shirt and my hair particularly bad today. My left shoe ripped earlier, too, so now my pinky toe peeks out when I push it out to the side. I focus on that instead.

She works, and I wait, but in the middle of her task, she pauses and looks up at me.

“You feel tired.”

“What?” I ask.

“It’s like I can feel how down you are. Bad day? Aside from the phone, of course.”

“Just bad luck this week. And Baz keeps trying to talk to me, and I don’t know what to say back, so there’s that. It’s like I forgot how to talk about anything small with him.”

She pauses, hands lowering to her desk, and looks at me disbelievingly. “It’s never stopped you before. You _always_ have to have the last word. Even if it is just to call him a dick.”

“It’s different now though. I mean, he’s still a dick, but… that’s not what I want to say to him.” I twist around in the chair and sigh. “I just wish I could be around him and see what happens. Everything through our phones feels so direct and I’m shit at expressing myself when it gets down to it. It’d be so much easier if he were here or I was there.”

“Yeah, I never understood how you two stayed so close even long distance. And even when it seems like you hate him, you still try to connect. At the risk of sounding like Penny—who knows, Simon. He might be your soulmate or something after all and you’ve never realized it.”

I groan and let my head fall back so that my eyes are glaring at the ceiling.

“But I can sympathize with what it must be like for you two,” she says. “Long-distance chemistry, but not knowing what it feels like to be in the same room. It must suck.”

Agatha still doesn’t know though. That Baz and I _were_ in the same room. And it felt like lightning running through my veins, like every cell in my body had magically lit up like a damn Christmas tree just being around him.

I’ve been thinking about that more lately. I had before, sure. But the last few days, I’ve been shamelessly fantasizing about the teleportation working. Or him randomly showing up in all this rain to the front of my building and demanding me to talk to him like in some romantic drama.

I can’t help but wonder even more what it’d feel like to just be able to hold his hand. Would it burn us both alive? Would literal fireworks go off in the universe because we finally came together?

If he showed up today, would the rain stop in a circle around us—or would a hurricane ruin the city instead? Would we cause a natural disaster, or the end of the world—would I even care? …Would he?

“Your phone is fixed.” She wheels around to face me. “Consider it an early birthday present and don’t break it again.”

“You’re a wizard.”

“I know it’s impossible for you to get over there right now. But, you two have obviously been holding on to each other for a while, right? Just hold out a little longer and make some damn plans already to meet up when things are a little less busy. Then pay attention to yourself. Ask, what’s the first thing you think of when he’s finally in front of you? Or, what’s the first thing you want to do now that you can.”

“Thanks, Aggie. I needed to hear all that.”

“Baz is gay. You’re bi. I’m aro. Tell him to come down to celebrate your birthday and Pride Month. Sounds like a fun first date. But, you can’t have a first date until you at least send him a longer text than,” she holds up a finger and reads from my phone, “ _‘no lottery haha.’_ ”

She looks like she’s about to say something more, but then her face is taken by confusion as she scrolls down.

“Si, why is Baz freaking out about winning a big contest?”

Shit.

Panic sets in and the first thing I think of is that I need to get far away from Agatha so my bad luck doesn’t drag her down with me. (It’s the reason I’ve been isolating and staying away from Penny and Micah. Their kitchen almost caught fire when I was over because I used their toaster.)

“I don’t know,” I lie, steal my phone back, and jump up. “I guess I should use that as my excuse to talk to him, yeah?”

I give a nervous laugh and she’s already narrowing her eyes because this is typically what happened before when we were dating. Baz says something friendmate-cryptic, I make an excuse, weirdness follows, meanwhile Aggie gets left in the dark.

“Thanks for my phone!” I shout over my shoulder and close her door behind me.

I take the stairs because I’m afraid the elevator will get stuck on me, and when I make it outside, I immediately set out for my place, scanning everything around me for any sign of misfortune.

I double check both ways before crossing, avoid walking over grates in the sidewalk, and stay on the lit side of the street where it’s less likely I’ll get mugged out in this dark. And, when my phone starts ringing Elvis’s ‘You’re the Devil in Disguise’, meaning it’s Baz, I run through the cross walk and stop at the corner under a light to answer it.

“Hello?”

He rushes out, “I didn’t even enter any contests! They still pulled my student ID number.”

“What did you win?” I ask, eyeing a stranger down the street from where I’ve stopped.

“ _A_ _lot_ of money for school.”

“Lucky you,” I say weakly. I don’t feel good. I whisper into the phone, “I don’t know what to do right now. There’s some shady guy staring at me from down the block. I think he’s waiting for me to move out from under the streetlight.”

“Call the police,” he barks at me immediately.

“And say what? ‘I’m a twenty-three-year-old man who needs an escort home because I’m paranoid my bad luck is waiting to pounce at me’? I’m in the city, they’re not going to send a patrol out because I _feel_ like something bad is going to happen.”

“Call Penny, Micah, Agatha, someone—do not keep walking down there alone.”

The figure moves out from the alley and starts heading towards me. He’s walking fast up the block, and it’s so dark and he’s so well-hidden in the shadows, that I can’t make out anything except something silvery in his hand. My internal warnings keep saying, ‘Knife! Knife! Knife!’ while my logic is telling me to calm down, it’s probably a phone or a watch, and that nothing bad is going to happen.

But luck usually defies logic, so…

“Simon, say something. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Fuck it. I’m going back to Agatha’s. I’ll stay on her couch for the night—I’ll chance a broken toaster, but I am not getting into it with some guy on the street when I don’t have anything on me in defense.

But I’m freaked out, and my paranoia is making me crazy.

So, I don’t immediately see the red hand telling me not to walk. And I’m too busy keeping an eye on the mugger behind me while my legs propel me forward.

And just my luck—

I don’t see headlights or hear the box truck until it’s screeching. Until I feel the impact against my shoulder and hip. A solid, painful smack of flesh, muscle, and bone fighting pure, cold steel. I feel the frigid wind rip through my clothes and the slam down into the pavement several feet away.

I hear a scream and it doesn’t sound like it’s mine.

It’s all static, muffled, like it’s transcending oceans. When I see the truck back up and speed off through a red light away from the intersection, and away from me lying on the ground, I think morbidly, ‘Well. Hit and run. Bad luck.’

I’ve got to be dying even though I don’t move to test it out. The first thing I think of after I settle in a heap on the ground is Baz. Him calling me Simon because he is worried. And he does care about me.

The second thing I think is that Agatha is going to bring me back from the dead just to kill me for breaking my phone all over again.

And, the third thing, significantly more grounded in reality, is that as soon as I move a fraction, I’m going to feel my broken body. Splintered bones. And then possibly open my eyes to a puddle of my own blood warming the street.

But my cheek is still on cold asphalt—and I don’t feel excessively warm anywhere. When I open my eyes, I see that as bad luck would have it, there isn’t even anyone or traffic around to care that I’ve been hit by a truck.

I flex my fingers—but they’re not broken.

I curl my arms under me—but there’s no pain.

Soon I push up onto my knees and rest back with my palms faced up.

There’s not a scratch on me.

I felt the truck though. I felt the metal against my skin and I felt the solidness of the ground when I slammed against it. But I don’t feel anything right now. I’m okay. I’m alive.

I look for my phone and the screen isn’t cracked, only a scuff on the case from the slide across the ground. When I turn back, the mugger is gone.

I make it back to the corner and call back Baz, but his phone just keeps ringing.

“Come on, Baz. Pick up. I’m not dead,” I mutter under my breath because what just happened was the most insane thing I’ve experienced—outside of teleporting and magical bonds. I want to tell him that I should’ve died but didn’t. And that when I thought I was, he was the first and last thing I ever wanted to think about.

But he’s not answering his damn phone.

He’s still not answering when I get back home. And the whole walk here, I kept chalking up this sick feeling to being because I just got hit by a truck. But honestly, I’m just worried because something about this doesn’t feel right.

Baz should be okay. He won a huge contest he didn’t enter. I got hit by a truck. Equal exchange.

But I don’t feel right. I feel nauseous and dreadful, and I just really want to talk to him.

After an hour goes by, I fight the feeling and lay down in bed. It’s been such a long week, and I did get launched across the fucking street. My head should be pounding, but I don’t even feel that.

So, I close my eyes, hand curled around my phone, and wait to be woken up by Baz’s ringtone.

* * *

 

My phone’s going off, but it’s not Elvis singing. It’s a number similar to his though, so I answer it. Instead of Baz demanding what’s happened, I get a woman, older than me, screaming through the phone, “What did you do to him!”

“Uh, I think you have the wrong—”

“Simon fucking Snow, what did you do to my nephew?!”

Fiona. I bolt up in bed, wobbling a little from sleep, but I’m still not bruised up from the accident.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“You tell me what the fuck is going on,” Fiona hisses. “They found him in the stairwell bleeding out like he’d—”

“Been hit by a truck,” I gasp out.

I can practically feel Fiona seething all the way from London at the recognition in my voice.

She’s still yelling and demanding answers when I drop the phone on my bed and run to my desk. I don’t want to do anything drastic, so I pull off a pen cap and press the sharp edge to my forearm and drag lightly, then a little harder; pressing just hard enough that the point leaves a small line of thin, scraped peels of skin in its wake. Just a scratch.

Before my eyes, it’s gone. And my skin is back to normal.

I throw the cap down and reach for my phone. My heart is beating fast and that sickness in my stomach is magnified tenfold because I know now that everything in my body since the accident has been screaming that Baz is hurt, and it’s my fault. It was my shitty luck, and now he’s sharing injuries and pain with me again like when we were kids.

“When I was nine, I broke my arm,” I say. “Out of nowhere. I was just sitting at the dentist, and all of a sudden, my bone snapped.”

There’s no answer on the other line and I think it’s gone dead. Right before I go to check it, I hear Fiona, less fire but just as deadly, threaten, “If anything happens to him, I’m going to kill you myself, Snow. I’m going to make you regret every day of your insignificant life, and then I’m going to end it.”

My mouth closes because I know she will, and I understand it.

I don’t want to think about Baz dying.

I try to put it away on my list of things not to think about. There with my mother, with my dad, with the hitting, and the way alcohol smells in the summer heat and flies that swarm around bins full of acrid brown glass bottles in lonely houses. Sore cheeks, aching jaws, and how much it hurt and broke my heart the day when Davy had first hit me, and I ran to my room to find that Baz had deleted me from his messenger, too.

I don’t want to think about what life feels like not having him in it.

And not just because of something like he just doesn’t want to talk to me—because I was an idiot. And was too in love with someone else to notice anything else.

No, Baz won’t be in it because he’ll be gone. I don’t want to think about how no one will pick up his violin ever again and play it the way it ought to be. Or how everyone will stare at his spot in class once word gets out. Or how his aunt will hate herself for crying. Or how I’ll hate myself because I’m still here and not making a mark in the world like he would’ve.

Because I make ripples and Baz makes waves; he’s spectacular and extraordinary, and I will probably be in my room when they lower him into the ground the same slow, torturous way they lowered my parents into their graves.

And I won’t even have an invitation to his funeral because we’re each other’s dirty little secrets. Because I was too stupid to see anything clearly for so long and he was too stupid not to say anything, to try to cut me out of his heart instead.

I don’t want to think about these things. But I do. And after Fiona’s tired of threatening me, drilling me for answers neither Baz, nor I, nor Penny have, I curl up on my bed and let the dark swallow me.

And I keep doing my best not to think of Baz bleeding out of my life until there’s nothing left of him, but the thing is, I’ve always thought about Baz.

And I already know that just because thinking about him hurts me more than anything in my life ever could, I can never stop thinking about him.

* * *

 

I don’t know what time it is, but the dark, stormy morning is glowing dull and listless outside my window.

I’ve already texted Fiona for updates on Baz. Half of the time she doesn’t respond, just like her nephew, but sometimes she’ll randomly send me an update on his condition.

He’s got a broken collar bone. Femur broken in two places. And his arm in three. They found him passed out, and he hasn’t woken up since. They’ve even shoved a breathing tube in him because he can’t do that for himself.

And it should be me.

Penny’s sitting with my head in her lap because she doesn’t know what to do anymore than I do.

“Maybe True Love’s Kiss?”

“To stop internal bleeding?” I sigh and close my eyes again.

I don’t want to think about it.

I have to think about it.

I hear her head fall back to the wall with a thud. “It doesn’t make sense,” she says. “I don’t understand why the soulmate magic would want to kill either of you.”

“Maybe it’s pissed off at me. I’m pissed off at me.”

“It’s not your fault, Si.”

“It’s not-not my fault either. Maybe if I had given Baz and I a chance when we met, things wouldn’t be this crazy.”

Then she does something she only does when she’s really trying to push her point; she locks her hand onto my jaw the way her mother does when Mrs. Bunce is really serious about something, turns my head and looks me in the eye.

She says, “I know I always gave you a hard time about Agatha. And, I don’t think you two were meant to be together forever. But you learned from it.”

“Pen…”

“No, seriously. You learned _how_ to love someone, and it’s not your fault that you didn’t immediately fall in love with Baz. Even if he’s your soulmate. You’re not obligated to be with someone. That’s your choice, and you’ve always followed your heart, Si. With all the arguing and avoiding, it just took you a little bit to realize it all.”

“That I might like-like Baz?”

“That you’ve always made room for Baz in your heart. No matter what he said to you, no matter how much he tried to pull away from what you two share. You’ve always welcomed whatever part of him you could get back into your life. That means something.”

“I didn’t though.”

“Yes you—”

“No, Pen. I always shut it down. Maybe I was scared. Sometimes I think back to when we first spoke to each other outside our heads. I was just so happy to know that what I felt was a real other person. Then we were friends. Then I met Agatha, and she was sweet and pretty. I thought that’s how things were supposed to be. I pushed him away before he ever tried to cut me out back. And now…”

I look up at her and plead with her to understand how much of a monster I think I am right now.

“He’s hurt. Because I let all this magic shit grow out of control. I might not even get the chance to ever see if he could care about me the way I do about him, and that’s on me. That’s my fault for chasing Agatha for too long and ignoring every single pull the magic made towards Baz.”

If Baz wasn’t getting my share of hurt, I know my head would be splitting and my eyes would be swollen and stinging from crying on and off this whole time. But I’m fine and in a way, that makes me feel worse.

My eyes start to well up a bit again. Another wave of self-pity. I tell her, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be in a world without him somewhere in it. I’ve never had to be…”

I roll my head back and out of her grip then think about it.

“You know one time when we were still friends, I was washing dishes and he was on the phone with me. Just lecturing me about something stupid I did. And, I joked about what he even did without me before I was born. Not even a split-second later, he said, ‘Cry and shit.’ And I laughed so hard I almost dropped my phone in the sink.”

She cracks a smile as I do.

“But then he got serious, and told me he couldn’t remember, but was probably just waiting for me to come into the world and ruin his life… But his voice was all soft when he said it. And I remember that when I think he doesn’t care about me. That he always says one thing but means something else. And I always get what he means wrong, but I know he meant it when he said he was probably waiting for me. To just show up and change everything.”

“Just wait now, Simon. He’ll get better soon.” She says it resolutely, like those simple condolence card words have a magic of their own, and speaking them out, meaning them, will somehow make this all work out.

* * *

 

Pen’s out getting us food when Fiona actually calls me.

“You piece of shit,” she says before I can get out my ‘hello.’ Her voice hitches at the end of it and it makes my stomach drop.

“What’s going on, is he better? He’s out of surgery now, right?”

“The fucking nurses are useless and—” She stops and collects herself . “They told me to fucking take a walk. He’s out, but his blood pressure won’t just stay already.”

“They’ve got to do something then,” I say, raising my voice like it’ll change things the more I yell. I keep rambling, “Why is he out of surgery if he’s not better? Why is he in recovery if he’s still barely hanging in there?”

“I hate you, you know,” Fiona says.

“I know,” I reply guiltily.

“No. You don’t. You don’t know the half of it. How many years have I had to watch him deal with your shit,” she spits out. “All I’ve ever wished was for him to have a normal goddamn life, with his real mother, and a father that wasn’t so pathetic. And I wish he never had you—so he’d talk to other boys for once. And make more friends without your freaky shit making his life hell. You’re a shitty soulmate, Simon Snow. And I wish he’d never met you.”

Fiona keeps on cursing me, but I just let her.

_‘…I wish he’d never met you.’_

It stings that we might not ever again. Just the once when I dropped down into his room out of mid-air—

And that’s when it hits me.

What if Penny is right? What if Baz and I actually touch? Will it fix this?

I’ll hold his hand, I’ll kiss every inch of his face, I’ll do whatever it takes to end this. And maybe when the magic ends, his pain will end, and everything will go back to normal. A normal we never had.

My hand jerks away from my head, and my phone leaps from it. It clatters to the floor and my hand gets yanked again, tugging me forward with it.

I see it, the red string. It’s pulled taut, disappearing underneath my door, and I abandon my phone. I leave Fiona and I don’t leave a note for Pen. I’m going on pure instinct as I let it string me along through the frame.

It winds down the hall, absolutely no slack in it, twisting around corners and squeezed between the seams of all the exits in the building that I burst through. It’s not even laying and looping on the pavement as I follow it.

People are staring at me as I rush by. I look like a crazy person in joggers and torn shoes running through wet streets with his arm outstretched in front of him. A psycho plowing through couples and staring at something just a few feet ahead that’s invisible to the world.

But I don’t stop. I force one leg in front of the other and keep running, burning and fueled only by adrenaline and intuition. The string yanks again and I nearly lose my footing going off a curve, then again later when I’m hopping a fence to follow the string over it.

I barely register that I’m one rusted metal barrier away from a busy five-lane highway until it stops pulling and suddenly stretches down, sinking limply to the ground in front of me.

I can’t see the end of it; just that it continues out across the lanes where car after car bolts and zooms by faster than I can make them out. Being so close to them makes the hair on my arms stand up. I wince at the memory of being hit less than twenty-four hours ago, but the string wants me here for a reason.

Baz isn’t on the highway. Still, the string always leads me back to something that brings me closer to him.

All I can picture is death though—death and Baz. Me dying or Baz dying, me by another truck or him in some hospital bed where nurses and doctors pretend to care about people who slip away every day. Everything is death and pain in my head—lights and tires screeching, Baz’s inexplicable bleeding and broken body at the bottom of a staircase.

Before I can tell myself to stop, I swing one leg over the barrier then the other, and stand pressed back against the cold metal but still even closer to the cars.

We haven’t had teleportation. Not since Davy hit me. Not since the muggers went to attack Baz when we were seventeen. But wouldn’t it be something, if in this one moment when I needed it most, the magic would work in the one way I wanted it to?

No spotty mind link connections. No broken bones. No pencils glowing in front of other people. No marker staining our faces.

Something good. Just like the time I comforted a boy when I thought he was just a voice in my head.

Or the second time, when it gave us a way to talk to each other again after we were both safe, away from our families, and starting our new lives with each other permanently in it.

I need him permanently in it.

I take a step towards the line and hear a honk.

Baz might die in a hospital in London and I might die on a highway in New York. Countries apart, never touched, never kissed; a story that never got to happen.

Just two dead people with a whole history of crazy, unbelievable magic and no explanation other than maybe we’re fated. And not friendmates. Not anti-friendmates. Not any ridiculous form of denial I’ve forced everyone to endure.

The highway clears for a split second and I see, for the first time, the end of the string. Just laying there in the middle of the highway. I only have one sprint to get to it and this may not work, but in the off-chance that my luck is back to normal and the ‘Red String of Fate’ does have a divine plan—I’m going to do it.

I’ll take that leap of faith because he’s worth it, and I’m not going to let him waste away when I could’ve tried everything to make this right.

I imagine his voice again:

‘— _Have fun walking home. I suggest you walk through traffic. Try with your eyes closed.’_

I let out a hysterical laugh then close my eyes, kick off the rail—and run.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hear Fiona shout, but it’s color and light swirling again. Wind whipping around me, and the worst pain I’ve ever had stabs through me as the universe pulls and bends me in all my broken parts until everything burns white and it all just stops.”

**Simon**

There’s a cacophony of horns blaring. It follows as a storm of wind and color swarms around me and I feel my feet lose their hold on the solid ground.

I’m flying, twisting, stretching, and light brighter than I can bear burns through the red of my closed eyelids.

Then it all comes to a halt and I’m back in reality, dropping unceremoniously onto a smooth, cool floor surrounded by a hum of machines and chorus of beeping from the surrounding rooms. When I look up, I see a woman with pitch black hair and a face that was made to scowl. I’d think she was in charge here if it weren’t for her eyes.

They look the same electric gray as Baz’s, wide and even more intense with the shock, just like when I manage to surprise him. I know in an instant that this looming Valkyrie with her signature white streak in the front of her hair is Fiona.

I get up and I’m surprised that I’m taller than her.

Fiona’s scary. I thought she’d tower over me, to be honest.

She narrows her eyes up at me in recognition after the shock fades and I realize she’s still scary.

“How’d you…”

I cut her off. “Finally ran through traffic like Baz told me to,” I say quickly because I don’t know how long I have until I get sent back. “Where is he?”

She grabs my arm and pushes me into the nearest room with all her strength then pulls the door shut.

“Doctor!” I hear her muffled greeting and then retreating steps.

Right. Family-only situation.

I turn towards the monitors and the bed, but falter because to think, I was scared of the traffic.

Scared of dying.

Of teleporting.

Then scared of Fiona.

Because none of it seems anything even a fraction as terrifying as seeing Baz with his eyes closed. Pale, like he’s had half his life drained away. And breath fogging up the breathing mask strapped to his face. I force myself to move forward until I’m right beside him.

He’s so beaten and shredded up. There’s a long line of stitches on the side of his forehead, inflamed reds and purples bruise his skin, and he’s bandaged up like the slightest touch will break him all over again.

And that unmistakable feeling of us being in the same space feels like it’s been cut in half. It’s nowhere near the lightning storm from before, but I can still feel him in there.

As little as it may be.

My eyes start to sting because he’s not okay. His body is failing him, and he keeps fighting it so hard—unstable, stabilized, then unstable again.

But how am I supposed to fix all this with just a touch?

I don’t know how to hold him without hurting him even more, and I’ve done enough damage. But I lay my hand onto his because it looks like it can handle it, and at first his skin feels like hot sparks under my mine

But nothing more happens. I wait and after a moment of listening to the beeps of the machines he’s hooked up to, I lean down and press my lips to his hand instead.

Nothing. This should be working. All our lives, everything’s been pulling for this moment. So, where the hell is all our magic at?

I kiss it again and again and still nothing. So, I move and try his forehead where it’s not raw and red.

I kiss him, light at first then more desperate as time slips away and nothing fucking happens. I move my lips down his temple, along his cheek, wherever the mask doesn’t cover. I can feel the universe’s patience with me draining and nothing is working, and I can’t make this better, so I rip off the mask and push my lips to his like we’re fighting, like I want him to fight back, wake up, and start growling that I’m stupid and a nightmare and it’s my fault this happened to him.

But I think, his lips shouldn’t feel so soft and perfect when he’s so cold and battered, but they do, and I stay there. Barely moving and just trying to fit them closer to mine like I’m trying to push my life back into him. He can have it. He can have every bit of life and energy and magic in me, I don’t want it.

But there isn’t any magic. No True Love’s Kiss. This… is just a kiss.

Then the dam holding back my terror breaks and my bottom lip trembles. “Please,” I beg quietly, stinging tears sliding off my chin and onto him. I press my lips to his again then pull back away and plead, “Please wake up, Baz. I don’t have time.”

He doesn’t. And soon, I give up and slump to the seat pulled up close next to his bed and let my head fall by his side.

I don’t know what else to do. This was all I had. And my shoddy plan failed. So I just let myself go, doing my best to swallow my cries so no one will hear, and squeezing my eyes shut to try to stop the splitting pain in my chest from drawing more tears out of me.

I hide my face from the harsh fluorescent lights of the room and it sinks in deeper that there is no magic that will help Baz recover. And it’s only a matter of waiting for the magic to send me back. Probably for the last time.

“I’m sorry,” I croak out and move my head to rest against his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t fall in love with you faster. And if you were ever in love with me, I’m sorry for that, too.”

I kiss his hand again. Still just a kiss.

“I’m not a good boyfriend though, I think. And I’ll bet I would’ve been a worse headache for you than I already am.”

I try to smile, but it’s like my mouth can’t turn up.

“You’d have to spell out the subtle things for me because when I’m tired, I’m oblivious, and I’m tired a lot.” I try to laugh, but it comes out like a whimper. “And you’d hate eating with me in public because everyone says I’m an animal unless you constantly check me and my manners.”

When I tilt my head down and hold the back of his hand to my cheek, I sigh, and let my mind wander to what that life would’ve been like.

With that, a smile finally comes.

“You’d have to remind me of all the important dates and anniversaries because I already forget just what day of the week it is.

“But I’d make it up to you. I’d bring you every kind of flower until I found one that made you forgive me. Hell, I’d bring you potted plants if it’d make it better. And I’d give you plenty of reasons to call me an idiot, but hopefully most of the time it’d be because I’ve made you do that ugly snort-thing you only do when something’s really fucking funny to you.

“You could use my Netflix account and fuck it up with all your weird artsy foreign films and boring documentaries until everything it recommends is in French or black and white. But I’d watch them with you because we’d have moved to the same city, and the same apartment, and sleep in the same bed; and I’d make fun of you for all your blankets and let you use me as a personal heater. And… it’d be perfect, Baz.”

If this is the last time I see him, I just want him to know I’m sorry, so I say, “I want all that. I want the chance to fall more in love with you. And show you all the ways I’ve learned how to love someone. Because I can do it now. I’m older. I’m not as stupid, but still pretty fucking stupid sometimes… But, I promise I’d never stop trying.”

I swallow and listen in to his heart monitor for a moment. It’d been beeping this whole time, like even Baz’s heart can’t help but make music.

“I want to watch you play your violin. To hear it in person. Go see one of your concerts and embarrass you. Shout, ‘That’s my boyfriend!’ from the audience.”

My entire life, he’s been there. Only he knows what a world without me feels like. I was always the lucky one. I just got to enter one with him already in it. And now…

“I just…” I lift my head and look at him. At his long dark eyelashes that aren’t even fluttering because he’s probably so hurt and struggling that he can’t hear a word I’m saying. Because I’m useless. I’m so fucking useless.

“I just want us to have a chance now that I’m willing to take it. Because I’m not scared of losing you like that, but I am scared of losing you like this. I need you in this world, Baz. You’re my soulmate—”

As soon as the word’s out, I feel like I’ve been sucker punched.

A scream rips through me when something in my chest and forearm cracks and snaps along with the bone in my leg in quick, sick succession. My head feels like it’s been slammed against brick over and over, and my breathing feels heavy like there’s not enough air. When I cough, blood splatters against Baz’s white sheets.

The door flings open and Fiona’s just outside.

 _“Simon!”_ I hear Fiona shout, but it’s color and light swirling again. Wind whipping around me, and the worst pain I’ve ever had stabs through me as the universe pulls and bends me in all my broken parts until everything burns white and it all just stops.

**Baz**

I was running down the stairs.

Because I had to do something. Because Simon wasn’t doing anything. He wasn’t even answering me, and that person was going to attack him on the street.

And when I reached the landing, it felt like I hit a wall.

Correction, I felt like I got picked up and thrown at a wall repeatedly until everything in me felt broken.

Then it was nothing for a while.

Some lights eventually. Bright lamps. People in blue and green staring down at me.

Nurses. Murmuring numbers and acronyms that mean nothing to me.

Daphne. Crying and telling me to pull through.

Malcolm. My father. Blubbering about us not speaking and how it’s all his fault.

Fiona, giving me terrible pep talks to the effect of, ‘I swear to god, if you leave me, I’m going to murder this entire hospital staff for their incompetence, and you don’t want that blood on your soul, do you, boyo.’

But none of it means anything in comparison to the vivid dream I had of Simon and me.

A life painted out for me in gorgeous hues. Of going on dates, bringing me flowers—all kinds. Some I love instantly, and some that are hideous trash flowers. But I love them all, anyway.

I can hear fragments of his voice, making fun of the films I like or how he wants to listen to me perform for him. An image of us cuddling in bed, him and so many blankets.

Him being sorry for not falling in love with me fast enough, and for losing me just as fast because we don’t have time.

And I swear, it’s like I heard it this time. Not a faint echo of it from his head, not mockingly, just Simon finally calling me his soulmate.

I don’t want to wake up from this dream, but in the same moment that I hear Fiona’s shout pierce through the fog of my head, I feel my body jolt on its own.

My back goes ramrod straight, and some of the splinters in my limbs mend themselves back together.

My head feels lighter. The aches dull. The patches and slashes stinging on my skin sew themselves back up.

And I’m comfortably…

No. I’m still in plenty of pain. Just less than before.

A groan erupts from my throat and I squeeze my eyes tighter because I don’t want to wake up. I want my dream about a life with Simon back, but I’ve got a manic, insane woman shouting my name and gripping my hand and shoulder like she’s trying her best not to just shake me awake.

“—Baz. Wake up, Baz. Come on, boyo. Wake up!”

“No,” I whine and try to swipe at her, but that arm still feels broken, so I hiss and gently ease it back down.

“You’re awake!” she exclaims in a desperation and joy that’s completely out of character for her.

“Trying not to be,” I mutter, still stubbornly keeping my eyes closed and clinging on to every bit of sleepiness I still have so I can go back to my dream boyfriend and our dream life.

“Simon was here. He did it. He healed you, he fixed it,” she says like a crazy person.

“What do you mean, ‘Simon was here’? Have you lost it?” I sigh and give up on sleep, loll my head towards her voice, and open my eyes to give her the driest, most vexed look I can muster in my condition.

“He fell out of thin air,” she says. “I shoved him in here and kept the staff busy. What did he do? What did he say?”

_‘I need you in this world, Baz. You’re my soulmate—’_

It dawns on me. “He teleported,” I say numbly, but I’m too preoccupied re-evaluating every fantastical fragment of Simon’s voice from the dream. Soulmate. He called me his soulmate.

Really, the idiot didn’t say fucking ‘friendmate’ and it might not have just been some dream. But if he teleported that means he was in danger. Bad luck. Danger. Blood and pain.

“What in the hell happened?” I finally ask, suddenly very aware that I collapsed in a stairway and feel like I got my arse handed to me.

“Simon told me he got into an accident yesterday with a truck but jumped up and walked away without a scratch. And you almost bled-out at your building until one of your neighbors found you.”

“Shared injuries,” I say. “I hated that one. He broke my nose.”

“He said you broke his arm.”

I roll my eyes and huff. “I told him before, it wasn’t my fault. We were nine and Dev was just as much of an arsehole as he is now.” When I look back at her, she looks lost. “I’m alright, Fi.”

“But you weren’t alright. You were barely stabilizing. No one knew if you were going to give up or make it.”

I try to move my other hand, and that arm is fine, so I hold it out for her to grab onto and when she does, I say seriously, “It’s going to take more than a magical truck accident to kill me. I’m a Pitch.”

Something grabs her attention. She looks at my phone on the table. I can’t see anything from this angle, but she averts her eyes for a minute in what, if I’m not mistaken, looks like decision and guilt, so I ask, “What? What aren’t you saying?”

“Heterochromia.”

“What?” I ask in confusion.

“You know his blue eye is back on the left side again,” she deflects. I know she’s deflecting. In comparison to everything that’s gone on, I know she doesn’t give two shits about my eye color being different which means something is wrong.

A nurse drops her clipboard when she walks in and sees me. Which means the healing that I felt underneath my skin must’ve helped-out the surface wounds, too.

When she’s done poking and prodding at me, she leaves but doesn’t leave Fiona enough time to tell me whatever she’s decided to withhold from me.

After a flurry of staff coming in and out for hours, asking me questions, checking my wounds, wondering why in the hell the cuts and incisions that were being held together by the steel wire of stitches are now all smooth skin, they’re calling me a ‘miracle.’

I just want my phone to call Simon, but Fiona keeps lying and saying it’s dead. And, when I call her out on the lying, someone else enters the room and buys her more time.

Right now, it’s Daphne and father.

“Basil, how in the world…” my father trails off, “…and your eye. Why is it blue?”

Daphne doesn’t question the mechanics of my healing. She just embraces it as she embraces as much of me as she can without hurting me. She also doesn’t mention anything about my eye and instead affectionately smooths my hair back from my face in a way only a mother would know how to do.

“Would you believe me if I said my soulmate popped in for a visit and cured me?” I ask with more vehemence than I was aiming for. I’m annoyed by all the attention when all I want to do is grab a crutch, wobble back to my bed, and call Simon to make sure he’s not in the danger that brought him here anymore.

“…Soul…mate,” he repeats like I’m raving mad.

“Yes. And he’s not a woman, just so there’s no misunderstanding. I might not have a broken collar bone anymore, but I’m certainly still not straight.”

“That’s enough, Basil,” he commands, only a slight warning in his voice because he’s still sentimental about the whole situation.

See the problem with me almost dying was that I wasn’t awake for most of it.

So, what’s been a long, uncomfortable nap for me has been a reawakening of sorts for all of them. Unfortunately, I’m panicked about Simon right now and don’t really care to be part of their Hallmark family drama moment.

“Fiona, give me my phone,” I ask for the hundredth time.

“It’s dead,” she replies once more.

“Then give it to me to hold.”

My father intervenes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s not going to stop. Just give him the phone.”

She glares at him, cold and icy as Hades, but says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I know it’s not dead, Fiona,” I nearly yell.

She crosses her arms and says, “He shouldn’t worry about anything until he’s—”

Then the unimaginable happens—more miraculous than the truck, my injury, Simon’s teleportation, and the undeniable ‘soulmate’ declaration—

Daphne circles around them and shoves her hand into Fiona’s jacket pocket, pulls out my phone, and goes back to her side of my bed.

“Here you are, Basil,” she says sweetly like she hadn’t just violated Fiona’s space. I also must add, ignoring the outrage on my aunt’s face and the shock on my father’s. “You call whoever you need to.”

“Thank you, mother,” I say, making my voice exponentially more pleasant just for her. I lift up my phone and pause, my eyes following the long, thin red string tied to my pinky. It’s sprawled along the floor and trailing outside into the hallway.

“What is it?” Fiona asks me in front of them, but not including them.

“String,” is all I say. My father and Daphne looks at us strangely, but I ignore them and scroll through my inbox at the dozen of messages. They’re all from Penny, not Simon.

_‘Baz or Fiona, call me. – Penny’_

_‘Someone please answer when you get this.’_

_‘Simon’s been taken to the hospital. They found him in the park. Someone please call me when you get this. I don’t know what to do.’_

_‘He’s stabilized. The police think it was an attack.’_

_‘CALL US ASAP. HE’S AWAKE. AND WORRIED.’_

I immediately swipe at her name and it takes too long for her to finally pick up the phone.

“Baz!” she nearly shouts.

“Is he alright? Let me talk to him,” I say. My father and Daphne are confused. Fiona looks nervous.

His voice is raspy and rough when he answers.

“Are you okay?” I ask, closing my eyes to block out my present company and focus on him.

“Are you?”

“They’re calling me a miracle,” I tell him with a bitter laugh.

“That’s all you need. For your head to get even bigger,” he slurs a little like he’s on pain meds. “They’re calling me a ‘typical New York Tuesday.’ Mugging in the park.”

“Do you have your string?”

“Yes. And you asshole, give me back my eye.” His laugh devolves into a cough and I’m worried again.

“What happened?”

“I took back the injury. Somehow. I don’t know, I just know I’m banged up.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t take back all of it. My arm is broken—one place now, not three, according to the x-rays. But the stitches are all unnecessary since there aren’t any cuts. They’re removing them once they all agree that they’re not going to magically reappear again.”

I say it with a laugh, but he’s serious when he replies, “I’m sorry, Baz. You got hurt because of me.”

“Shut up, Snow. We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

I hear Pen talking indistinctly in the background and the phone shuffles a little before Simon says, “Pen thinks this all happened to bring us together.”

“Like the universe got impatient?”

“Yeah. Really impatient.”

“And, what? True Love’s Kiss fixed it?” I joke.

“Nah, I tried that. It didn’t work.”

Wait.

He _kissed_ me.

Simon bloody Snow kissed me.

And I was fucking unconscious for it. I close my eyes and keep them closed because for one, I’m trying to block out my family still. And two, I can’t believe I _missed_ something I’ve been fantasizing about since I was fourteen.

“No,” he continues, “it all hit me when I called you my soulmate.”

As soon as I hear it, confirmed and from his own mouth, I can’t stop grinning, and I’m really glad I have my eyes closed so my father can’t ruin it.

“Malcolm, let’s give him some space,” Fiona says.

“But—”

“Let him talk to his friend,” Daphne says.

They’re retreating from the room when Simon says to me, “I’m sorry it took so long. I don’t know how you feel, Baz, but I—”

“Don’t,” I cut him off. Because I’m scared. I’m terrified that just like my family suddenly loving me more because I almost died, Simon will say something and not mean it. “You saw me banged up. I get it. But, you don’t have to say something you don’t mean, Snow.”

“No, Baz, it’s not—I just—I’ve always loved you,” he blurts out in one breath. “I knew that before. But it just took me a while to figure out that I’ve been in love with you, too.”

“I—” I’m scared to speak it out loud, but he’s already said it.

So now, it’s my turn to finally let him know how I feel.

“I love you, too, Simon,” I say, much softer than I intend to. And with that, my eyes flutter open to take in the beautiful world around me because Simon Snow loves me and is _in_ love with me and nothing can ruin this.

Then I make eye contact with my father who’s paused at the door, staring back at me with wide eyes.

We’re locked in a bit of a staring competition before Fiona hisses for him to follow and he leaves looking as lost as Fiona did before. And I wonder if almost losing me is enough to make him accept the fact that I’ve found someone to love, even if he isn’t who my father expects for me.

 

* * *

 

****

**_7 months later… New Year’s Eve_ **

**Simon**

“Thank you. You, too. I’ll tell him. And let them all know I said Happy New Year,” Baz shouts over the noise and hangs up his call.

I’m standing at one of the tall tables covered in gold and silver confetti ‘2021’s. He moves behind me, wrapping his arms snug around my waist and leans his chin on my shoulder.

“Everything okay over there?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m surprised my father was still up. He says Happy New Year.”

“Well, you’re just in time. Three minutes to spare.”

“Do you think it’ll come back this time?” he asks me.

I don’t need to see him to know that he’s worried because he doesn’t bother to hide it from me as much anymore, not since he moved over here after his term ended.

It’s hard to conceal your feelings when you’re in a little studio apartment every day with someone, but I like him not hiding it. He hid it all for too long, and though that was partly my fault, he insists it wasn’t.

“I’m not entirely convinced all of them are gone,” I say. “You found a dollar on the sidewalk yesterday at the same time I tripped and fell.”

“You didn’t tie your shoe even though I explicitly told you to twice. That’s hardly bad luck. You were asking for that one.”

“Coincidence. Fate. You don’t know,” I say stubbornly, but I know it was just because I just didn’t tie my shoe laces.

“Things haven’t been glowing since December started,” he points out.

“Good. That one’s a sore spot for me.” I think about Davy, but I’m getting a lot better at acknowledging it then pushing it far behind me instead of burying it down deeper. “I hope the love notes don’t disappear. I rather like that one.”

“ _I_ write love notes,” Baz says. “You drew a dick on my forearm the other day.”

“I thought it’d be funny. You know. You were on your way home. The timer had appeared for the week. I thought it’d be funny to let you know what the countdown was for.”

He pinches my side for that one and I yelp and spill my drink over my shirt. I don’t think that counts as bad luck this time though.

“God forbid our voices switch,” I groan. “Or worse, we can’t hear mu—”

“Ah ah ah!” he shushes me real quick. “Don’t jinx it. I can’t have you hugging me just so I can hear myself practice.”

“Or holding hands just so we don’t have to watch a movie in gray, blue, and green.”

“At least you get green, too. All I get stuck with is your blue. But anyway, that one wasn’t all that terrible,” he argues. “There’s a certain experience that comes with watching a movie meant for color in—”

“Oh, shut up. Gal Gadot and Chris Pine were meant to be viewed in color. It was a Wonder Woman sequel, not one of your pretentious artsy films.”

“Shh,” he hushes. “Stop talking. Who knows? I might end up with your voice in my head again. I want to enjoy these last twenty seconds of silence.”

“You started it. It’s not my fault the mind link’s been corrupted for dirty uses now.”

“Yeah, but you were reading it while I was at _work_ ,” he hisses. “It wasn’t some class presentation or trying to order a burger after class.”

I smirk and mentally run through all the links and bonds then say, “Ugh. Watch me get two rows of your twenty-five names on my wrist, _Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch_.”

“Well, it’s much cooler than Simon _Snowman_ Salisbury,” he teases like we’re twelve again.

“ _Snow_. And I sound like a super hero, or the main character of my own series.”

“Now who’s got the big head.”

I ignore him and say, “If we lose things this time, at least we know we can just give it back at the end of the day when we get home.”

“It’s nice now that we’re not eight, and losing things that actually matter.”

I hum in agreement. “Phone.”

“Keys,” he adds.

“God, we’re so boring now, Baz.”

“We’re adults.” He perks up at something he’s remembered and says, “Oh, there’s the chance we might acquire our own language again. Like when we were three. I always wanted to test that one out again. See if you’re the only one that can really understand it or if I was just making up gibberish to everyone.”

“Pen would have a field day with that one. She’d write a whole dictionary on it.” I laugh. “Oooh! Future vision.”

“Allegedly.”

“I was four, I was old enough to know what I saw. You had visions, too. Anyway, we could play the lotto and hit up casinos. Clean ‘em out with psychic powers.”

“It was future vision of _us_ , not everything else. It was completely useless. All I learned from that thing was that sixteen-year-old you would eventually drink Mountain Dew with every meal,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Some future soulmate to look forward to.”

“Guys!” Agatha yells, dragging Penny behind her with Penny dragging Micah along, too. “The countdown’s going to start!”

“Let me see the list again,” Micah says, kisses Penny on the cheek, and hovers over her shoulder while she excitedly brings up our checklist of soulmate bonds.

Everyone’s counting down, and like every new year before this one, I feel a panic.

“What if it all keeps shifting?” I ask. “I don’t mind keeping some of them. Like the eyes and the drawing, even the string, but the others? The luck. Or injuries? I don’t want that for you again,” I say seriously.

“There isn’t a rule book for this, Snow. We just have to go with it. Sometimes there’s a sense to it. Sometimes there isn’t. Or it’s just beyond us. But… I mean, at least it’ll be there, right?”

“But… what if it hits midnight, and it’s not anymore? What if we’re just… normal?” I ask. And he knows what I mean by that. I’ve confessed it to him before.

Why would someone as intelligent and clever, poised and talented, capable and perfect as him want with someone like me if it weren’t for the magic?

 

_10…!_

 

He lets go and moves in front of me, just to scoff right in my face. “It doesn’t change anything.”

 

_9…!_

 

“Nothing will be telling you that you have to be with me though,” I say and bite my lip.

 

_8…!_

 

He cups my face and stares at me for a moment.

 

_7…!_

 

Then runs his thumb over my lip until I release it from my teeth.

 

_6…!_

 

Baz lets himself soften a little, just for me because he hates it when I get like this.

 

_5…!_

 “Fate didn’t make me choose you—"

 

_4…!_

 

 “—It just gave me you,” he says.

 

_3…!_

 

He presses his forehead to mine.

 

_2…!_

 

“ _I_ choose you, Simon—”

 

_1…!_

 

“—and I’ll always choose you.”

_“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”_

 

The bar, the dance floor, Agatha, Micah, and Penny all shout as the DJ plays a terrible remix of Auld Lang Syne. Lights and lasers shine in silver and blue around us. Unluckily, we’re standing beneath all the confetti being poured in buckets over our heads. Luckily, the wasted guy next to us vomits away from us.

I can’t tell what’s really glowing and what’s just blacklight from the club. And I don’t know if I’m reading his mind or if our lips just know what to do because we’ve been making out non-stop since he crossed an ocean to do just that, be able to hurl insults and kiss me whenever he pleases.

And my eyes still might be mismatched.

Or his name might be on my wrist right now.

The middle of the red string from my finger to his might be piled on the floor next to us.

We might have timer’s blinking 00:00:00:00 in time with the beat of the music.

I might be having a real, magical vision of a future with him and me in a bigger home, bands on our ring fingers, still kissing like it’s our first New Year’s Eve together.

Or it could be an imagined fantasy. We could be normal right now and not even know it.

All I know is that whether all this soulmate shit sticks around for the rest of our lives or not, there’s no doubt about it that I will always choose Baz.

And I guess luck is on my side this time around.

Because Baz loves me enough to choose me, too.

_-End-_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!<3


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